The Assassin
by GhostOfMusic
Summary: Offered the chance to become an assassin, Erik takes to the street as a murderous ghost once again, cold, calculating and merciless. However, when he lays eyes on his target Christine Daae, his hard heart begins to soften. AU. Dark.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. The rights belong to those who have acquired them legally.**

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This was truly a remarkable event. So impressive, in fact, it was eligible to be written down in the city records. Had an impossible feat like this ever been accomplished before?

For Erik could not recall a previous time hearing that a ghost had been captured.

They had done a thorough job. Hands bound behind him, his legs nicely trussed to his chair, a gag in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes...they had known of his strength and cunning well before they had captured him. Indeed, even Erik's slim wrists and long fingers could not loosen the tight rope that held his arms together.

For at least an hour since he had regained consciousness, Erik had been listening to the soft drone of male voices, shuffling of feet and turning of pages, and he had been inhaling heavy dust mixed with fresh cigar smoke. He hadn't the slightest idea where he was, how long he had been asleep, nor the identity of his captors.

His head throbbed. Along with two or three good lumps on his scalp, he'd apparently been drugged, because he remembered a strong-smelling rag smothering his face as he had struggled to free himself in the darkened hallways of the Opera. Even though he could not see the extent of his injuries, he could certainly feel them. He suspected heavy bruising all over his body, he could feel a cut on his lip and above his eye, and someone had kicked his shin hard.

Suddenly, chair legs groaned and boots began to shuffle more quickly. A door creaked, and Erik heard a man cough. A pair of feet approached him, and a hand firmly grasped his hair, lifting his face upwards.

"This is the man, Damian?" A soft, gruff voice asked.

"Yes, monsieur. We are positive."

A hand removed the gag from Erik's mouth and slowly pulled the blindfold from his eyes. A glowing warm lantern hovered directly in front of his face, causing him to squint in pain. He could not see the face of the person before him.

"So you're not a ghost after all, I see?" the voice spoke again with a chuckle. "Only a man."

A chair dragged across the floor, and the lantern was set down on a lower surface. Erik's eyes slowly adjusted and he could begin to see the man sitting in the chair in front of him. From what he could make out, the stocky stranger was shrouded in a dark cloak, holding a hat in his hands. A hard pair of eyes stared at him. Erik was strongly aware of other large shapes surrounding the two of them, careful to watch for any sudden moves their captive might make.

"Do you have a name, phantom?" the man asked him.

Erik blinked, silent. He was extremely reluctant to reveal his name to this group of strange men so immediately.

The dark man leaned forward in his chair. "Do you speak? _Français?"_

"_Oui," _Erik whispered, barely audible. The man's face was slowly beginning to come into view as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Beneath a shock of grayed hair, he could see a roughened, hard face with gleaming black eyes.

The stranger's lips twitched in a thin smile. "Perhaps I will introduce myself first, then. My name is Hughes." He held out a large hand, then chortled when he realized that Erik was still bound.

"I apologize for the inconveniences," Hughes said in a falsely sweet tone, "but with your reputation, we couldn't risk having you play some of your impressive tricks on us."

"Why am I here?" Erik asked flatly, his annoyance mounting.

Leaning back in his chair, Hughes folded his hands in his lap and sighed. "I suppose I should cut to the chase, shouldn't I...ah well. As you may or may not know, monsieur, your little adventures as the phantom of the Paris Opera were printed quite extensively in the papers. A hanging here, an unfortunate accident backstage there. The poor managers mailing twenty thousand francs a month to an unearthly being just to keep him happy. Even a free box to use at the ghost's leisure. The cunning, manipulation and intelligence involved in each incident caught my attention."

Though Erik was thoroughly displeased with his captivity and the stranger sitting before him, he could not help but feel a slight twinge of pride at the man's words. At least one person had found his activities impressive.

Hughes must have seen something change in Erik's eyes, because he leaned forward, looking him intently in the face. "You see, monsieur, I am an assassin; a retired one, you might say. Unfortunately I have aged, and I'm no longer as sprightly as I used to be. However, I still advertise my services discreetly, and the pay is very satisfying. Potential clients come to me for help, and I assign one of my men here--" he gestured to the figures around him, "--to go and finish the job. His pay his determined by the quickness of the job, and if he has managed to carry it out undetected."

The man paused for a minute, his eyes meticulously searching Erik's. "By my observations, I came to conclude that you would make an excellent employee. Why, with your little tricks, or sleight of hand, we may not even have to kill as many targets, and that would save us much work. Perhaps a little 'haunting' in order to scare someone into giving a 'ghost' money and valuables."

The wheels in Erik's mind began to whir. This man was obviously an admirer of his work; a man Erik had never dreamed he would meet. Until this moment, he had expected to live his life in complete loneliness, dispatching those who were a threat, playing tricks and writing endless music for the rest of his days...but here was an opportunity, and a golden one at that. Working for this man, Erik could show off the skills he had obtained in Persia. Through torturous training in that foreign land, he had become an expert strangler, thief, and trickster. What a perfect chance to showcase his talents!

Suddenly, however, his instinctive cautionary senses began to grow. Was there a catch to this? A danger of being captured by law enforcement? Were these men perhaps gendarmes in disguise? Erik's eyes began to shift to the dark shadows surrounding Hughes, trying to see their faces.

"Worried, I see?" Hughes said with a chortle. "Ah, you are a careful one. That is good. In a position like this, one can never be too cautious. You needn't fear us. If we were involved with the police, we would not be sitting here wasting time; you would have woken up in a jail cell instead of a cellar."

Erik blinked at the man's sharp observance, impressed. He began to let his guard down slightly, still staring intensely at Hughes.

"Will I have adequate living space?" he asked him.

Hughes nodded. "We can find a small flat for you. You must pay, for it, however, and you can obviously afford it." He pointed to a small table to the left, and Erik glanced over to see some of his belongings sitting there, including his lasso, several letters from the Opera's managers, a ring of keys, and his money pouch. They had searched him before he had regained consciousness.

Slightly annoyed by his property sitting out in the open, Erik grunted and turned back to the other man, who grinned.

"So...would you like to try it?" Hughes asked. "If you are displeased with this service, I will dismiss you and you will be free to go."

Erik sat there silently as his mind worked over the choice that lay in front of him. The opportunity was very tempting, and after all, what did he have to lose?...

Five minutes passed.

"Well? Hugues said quietly.

Erik gave the man a dark glare. "I will do it."

"Good." Suddenly a soft rag was pressed over Erik's entire face, and he inhaled the overwhelming smell of chloroform. He did not even attempt to struggle this time; bound as he was, he could do little to stop them.

"We will take care of everything," Hughes' voice floated in Erik's head before he lost consciousness.

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**Dear potential readers, **

**thank you for choosing to read this new work! This is an idea in my head that has been churning for some time. I know I am a naughty writer because I have unfinished business to take care of (my two other works in progress), but I had to submit to the muse. My other works have not left my mind, so don't worry if you still wish to see them finished. I am an extremely busy person and rarely have time for myself, let alone writing. Please be patient with me as I continue writing this and other works!**

**Your feedback is extremely valuable to me, and I appreciate constructive criticism. Tell me what you liked or didn't, and suggestions you may have. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

Many hours after his capture, Erik lay on a rickety cot, just beginning to stir from his deep sleep. His half-lidded eyes swiveled slowly in their sockets, trying to make some sense of the blurry dark objects around him, and the floating golden orb some feet away from him.

"Who is it?" he slurred in a low tone, groaning as his head began to pound again. His body ached so badly.

The glowing orb approached him and was held up in front of his face. "Just I, phantom. My name is Louis. I'm employed by Hughes." Erik heard the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor, and could make out the man sitting down in front of him.

"Why are you here?" Erik asked in a near whisper, trying to push away the urge to drift off. The effects of the chloroform hadn't completely worn off yet.

He heard the stranger chortle. "To be honest, I wanted to take a look for myself at the infamous Opera Ghost. You're quite popular in the papers, I'm sure you know." He reached over to a table and held something up to show Erik, who struggled to focus his eyes. "This is a beautiful little thing, here. I'm impressed. Did you create this yourself?"

Erik grumbled in irritation when he recognized what the man was holding; the Pubjab lasso. He feebly reached out a hand for it, and was pleased to feel the familiar smooth catgut in his fingers again. He slipped it safely inside his coat pocket."Yes, I have created several of them myself." He smirked a bit. "I admit, I do pride my skills in the art of strangulation."

He saw Louis raise his eyebrows. "An art, you say? Hm, I've never thought of it that way." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, short revolver, cradling the barrel in his hand. "Myself, I prefer not to get my hands dirty. This lovely lady here is very dear to me."

Looking down at the weapon, Erik gave a shrug of indifference. He had never liked using firearms; though they were finely made contraptions, Erik had always found them loud and cumbersome, difficult to aim. The noose, on the other hand, was silent, quick and true.

The man tucked his treasured gun back into his pocket, patting it gently. Erik, meanwhile, analyzed the newcomer's appearance, his vision beginning to clear. The man was dressed in a large black overcoat and dirty boots. He had a full head of dark hair, with a well-kept mustache, and a pair of neutral brown eyes that observed him steadily.

"By the way," Louis said suddenly, leaning back in his chair a little and folding his arms, "do you have a name other than 'O.G.'?"

Smirking slightly, Erik nodded. "Ah...yes. My Christian name, if you wish to call it that, is Erik."

Louis twirled the end of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "I see. Well then, I am pleased to have you with us, Erik."

"Thank you." Erik groaned and struggled to sit up, holding his aching head with one hand. Every limb was throbbing with pain, and his face felt slightly swollen. He heard Louis chuckle.

"I apologize for your injuries. You were quite the fighter back at the Opera; some of our men also carry evidence of your attacks on their faces and their limbs. You were most certainly a challenge to take down." He laughed, reaching into his pocket again and pulling out a dulled and dented flask. He took a short swig from it, and offered some to Erik, who eagerly received it. He was grateful for the whiskey warming his empty stomach.

Breathing deeply, Erik now surveyed the room he was in. Aside from a roughly hewn side table and chair, it was completely empty. He assumed this space was to be his living accommodations, and found he deeply missed his well-furnished home six stories underground; which, he realized with a pang of sadness, he might never see again.

"Do you have the time?" Erik asked, brushing a drop of whiskey from the corner of his lips. He leaned his body heavily against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes and praying that his throbbing brain would be soon be soothed.

Louis consulted a slightly broken pocket watch. "Half-past ten, in the morning."

Erik groaned. He resented waking up so late in the day, despite the fact he'd been drugged twice over the last twelve hours. He attempted to turn and place his feet on the floor, but Louis made a disapproving noise.

"I'd lie back down if I were you. You are not in any condition to be walking about just yet. Besides, Hugues will be arriving in about half an hour to discuss future assignments for you." He stood, pushing back his chair and putting on a pair of worn gloves. "I'll leave you to your own devices now; I must take leave. Pleasure speaking with you."

With a nod, Louis ducked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Erik let out a deep sigh, gripping the edge of his cot firmly to prepare for pain. He stood slowly and awkwardly, hissing through his teeth as he found all of the sore muscles in his body. Straightening his stiff back, he walked to the window and squinted out at the gray road. The cobblestones were slick with rain, and a light fog settled over the little apartments across the street.

His gaze wandered to his barely visible reflection in the glass. He could see two weary green eyes staring back at him, and he could see his long black hair hanging limply around his face. He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his chin, frustrated with his current state. He was never one to be sloppy, and had always kept himself clean-shaven, preened and washed. It seemed that he would have to make some sacrifices if he was going to go through with this assassination business.

Erik touched the firm leather of his full mask, wondering with fear if his captors had removed it at any point during his unconsciousness. He could not remember if he had been wearing it the previous night. Surely they would have been curious to see his face?

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Erik discovered his belongings had been replaced. He pulled out a crushed silk ribbon and tied back his unwashed hair, groaning as he felt the lumps on his head. .

_I wonder what I've gotten myself into, _he thought as he trudged back to his cot and sat down slowly. The full realization of what had just occurred over the last night was beginning to dawn on him more clearly. He'd let himself fall straight into a trap. No longer hidden away in his underground haven, no longer under complete control...now he was exposed, his identity known to a small group of men.

Erik's mind began to spin, racing through all of the possibilities that might occur from his presence in the outside world. Hughes was obviously an intelligent and powerful man—_like myself, _Erik mused smugly—and he could have connections unknown to Erik at the moment. Did he have ties to the police? Could he be speaking to their chief now, with that smirk on his face, as he revealed the location of the infamous O.G.?

Paranoia seeping into his heart, Erik's eyes shifted to the window, his ears straining to hear the thunder of horse hooves on the road, the shouts of uniformed men approaching his door. His hands twitched at the thought of cold hard chains around his wrists.

The doorknob rattled slightly. Erik instinctively drew his lasso from his coat, wrapping it around his hand as his eyes stared at the moving doorknob.

A tall cloaked man slipped inside quietly, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. Erik's grip tightened on the lasso and he stood abruptly, muscles tense, heart pounding, every inch of him prepared to attack the stranger.

The man lifted his face, and Erik relaxed slightly. It was Hughes.

Hughes paused glanced down at Erik's deathly white hands clutching the lasso, and he chuckled. "Nervous, are we? You certainly don't like to take any chances." He approached him, removing his hat and making eye contact with Erik, who did not move.

"Relax, phantom. Sit."

Erik slowly obeyed, taking a seat on his cot. He loosened his grip on the lasso, but never let go. His eyes watched the man's every move. His hand reaching out to pull the chair close. The way he touched his bulky cloak pocket. His thumb brushing his nose.

Hughes pulled out a thin sheaf of papers from beneath his cloak. "Before I begin, I must know your true name. I don't believe you got around to telling me last night."

"Erik," he replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Good," said Hughes. He glanced down at his papers and cleared his throat. "Erik, these are some recent orders from several clients. Fairly easy, nothing too complicated. I want you to take a look at the first one and tell me what you think."

Erik slowly took the papers and began to read.

_March 16 1882_

_Client's name is Andre Grosvenor. Requested that former business partner be taken care of-had an affair with his wife. Requested that a ring be taken from the target's finger and that cash be taken from the residence. To be completed as soon as possible._

_Target's name is Claude Simon. Average build, brown hair and eyes, short beard. _

_Estimated offer 400 francs. _

Beneath was a scrawled address. Erik glanced back up at Hughes.

"Would you like me to do this?"

The man nodded. "Yes. I'd like to follow you as well and see you carry out the assignment myself. Forgive me if you find this offensive, but I am curious to see your methods. I am sure they are like none I have seen before."

Erik's green eyes darkened and his pale lips lifted in a cool smile. The old anticipation of a killing began to rush through his veins. He coiled the smooth noose around his wrist.

"I'll do it now."

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**Dear readers, thank you for reviewing the first chapter! To answer some of your questions, yes, this is set in the late 19th century, and as for my interpretation of Erik, I see him as a colder, more dangerous version of Yeston/Kopit's Phantom. **

**Thank you for your feedback, it is extremely valuable!**


	3. Chapter 3

Erik had wasted no time in setting out to find his target. Hughes followed at an appropriate pace that would not look suspicious to passerby, beginning to wonder if he should have at least offered the man something to eat or drink before leaving. He had most certainly been deprived of food and water the previous night and morning, and the way Erik swayed on his feet when he stopped to consult his directions began to concern Hughes, but he decided to remain silent and observe what would happen.

He had considered stopping him for a moment to let him borrow his revolver for added safety, as Hughes did not want to lose such a valuable killer so quickly, but Erik seemed quite satisfied with his singular lasso. It was obvious he had used it many times.

Halting at a street corner near the target's residence, the former assassin watched Erik from a distance, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He casually checked his pocket watch to give the impression to the few public on the street that he was waiting for a carriage, while steadily watching Erik.

The Opera Ghost was standing at the door to the residence. A brief surge of fear struck Hughes' heart, as he thought the man was actually going to enter the house through the front door...but he relaxed when he saw Erik move away and begin to inspect the sides of the building.

He wasn't sure what sort of process he was carrying out, but still he calmly watched.

Erik, meanwhile, was restless with anticipation. He checked the west wall of the building, spotting an ajar window on the second story. He put his hands on the dilapidated, rickety lattice that was attached to the building and began to climb carefully.

As he neared the window, unsure of what he would meet when he looked through the glass, he clearly heard a rhythmic wooden creaking and guttural moans coming from the open crack. Erik choked down a rising laugh; he had apparently caught the disloyal husband right in the midst of his tryst.

Once he'd reached the window, Erik slowly peered through the dirty glass. On the opposite side of the room, he could see someone moving back and forth on the bed, a nude man, quite possibly Claude, with his trousers around his ankles, and a woman's body beneath. Her face was hidden by the dirty lace partially covering the window, but her naked breasts were visible to the world.

He moved away from the window, growing slightly irritated. He hoped their little lovemaking session would not take long. After all, he had some business to take care of with the man in that room. If he had been given permission to eliminate the woman as well as Claude, he would be in the bedroom now, choking the life out of the both of them, but unfortunately, that permission had not been granted in the note.

A beastly moan from the man and a breathy screech from the woman signaled the end of their amusing intercourse. Erik listened carefully to the sounds that followed. The woman was laughing and speaking some sort of wanton nonsense to the man--probably praising his _impressive _passion--and her lover chuckled.

Then he heard the word he needed to hear:

"Oh, Claude..."

The identity of the man was confirmed; the target had been found.

"Hurry off now, naughty girl. My wife will be home soon," Claude spoke. A slap on skin and a squeal followed.

"Tomorrow night, then," the woman said quietly, and a door closed.

Erik looked through the window again. Claude was pulling up his trousers and shrugging on a crumpled shirt, with his back to him. Now was the time to make his move.

Silent as a spirit, Erik slowly opened the window until he could slip his body through the gap. His eyes remained focused hard on his target, watching for any sudden movements in case he happened to hear him. Still the idiot fumbled with his shirt buttons, completely oblivious.

Erik stood in the room now. The sensation of overwhelming power was racing through his veins. This man was under his complete control. Claude thought he would leave this room alive in a few moments. He planned on walking down the stairs. Little did he know he would be lying dead in several minutes.

_I control your fate._

As the man finished straightening his collar, he began to head for the door. Erik smoothly intercepted him, pinning his arms to his sides with one arm and clapping his hand over his mouth. He quickly shoved him onto the bed, the sheets still damp from lustful sweat. Erik turned the man over on his back, his knees firmly holding his hands down at his sides. He liked to make his victims see their attacker. He smirked when his target laid eyes on the frightening mask. Claude's face was white with terror, his eyes bulging, body pathetically twisting in attempt to free himself. He perfectly matched the description given in the orders.

Smoothly pulling out his lasso with his free arm, Erik looped it around Claude's neck and tightened it hard with both hands. The man gurgled, his tongue curling as he attempted to swallow air. His eyes were as large as plates as he began to struggle more desperately, realizing that his attacker had every intention of killing him.

Erik said nothing, his face calm as he watched his victim die. Claude's face began to turn a pale blue, yet still he fought, but soon the tell-tale death convulsions began to take hold of his body.

After a few minutes, the man relaxed, his eyes growing glassy, and Erik slowly loosened the rope. He knew by the rattle of escaping air from the lungs that the man was now dead. He stood from the body and examined the hand, taking from it a golden wedding band. He then searched the nearby chest of drawers, pulling them all out and digging through their contents until he found a small leather case, which, upon opening, displayed a large amount of money.

He turned to the window, and was mildly surprised to see Hughes outside of it, his hands firmly clutching the sill, and a queer expression on his face that Erik could not readily identify.

"Good work, Erik."

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After the hit had been completed, Hughes offered to take Erik to a pub frequented by his men to give him something in his belly before they sought out his client. The place was located in a run-down, shoddy house that also doubled as a brothel in the evenings, and this particular street was not usually patrolled by the police very often. It was quite safe.

Entering the darkened, musty room, Erik and Hughes took a seat at a rickety table. Hughes ordered the burly man who approached them to bring them a bottle of brandy, a glass of water and some roast meat.

Once the man had left, Hughes, turned to look at Erik. He was sitting up straight, his cowl over his head to help cloak his identity. His green eyes were darkened, analyzing the room and the people that occupied it with a critical and suspicious stare. This man obviously trusted no one.

Hughes had been highly impressed by Erik's work at Claude's house. Never before had he seen such confidence or strength in a new employee, and he could not recall another first assignment going so smoothly and quickly as this one had.

"You've a lot of experience," the former assassin commented quietly, his folded arms resting on the table. Erik's hard gaze shifted to his face.

"Yes. Plenty."

An unexpected shiver ran up Hughes' spine, and it unnerved him. He was not a man who was easily disturbed, but something about this Erik made his blood run cold. He did not know why; perhaps it was his tall, unbending form, his merciless stare, or the black mask that covered his face. Hughes was aware of the deformity that infected Erik's face; though he had not seen it himself, his men had, and it was described to him. The deformity had not been mentioned to Erik at all since his capture, and Hughes preferred to leave it at that.

However, he did not find the Opera Ghost's face to be the most frightening aspect about him. No...it was his method of killing. Very few of his men strangled. Firing a gun, driving a dagger through the heart or poisoning a drink were popular, but not many of his employees had the strength or stamina to strangle, either with their bare hands or with a cord.

Hughes had also never seen such..._calmness..._during a kill. He'd seen anxiety, sweating, panting, illness, and exhaustion when one of his men killed, and he even experienced it himself. The passive expression he'd seen in Erik's eyes while he choked the life out of Claude chilled him. The man didn't care...he really did carry no emotion when he killed.

After their drinks and food arrived, Erik began to devour the roast meat. For a moment, it seemed he was so hungry he had forgotten to use the utensils, as he began to tear the meat apart with his long fingers.

The older man sipped his brandy slowly, observing his new killer with a sense of satisfaction, though he could not shake off the disturbed feeling in his bones.

_Who are you, Erik?..._

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A/N: Thank you for your reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far.


	4. Chapter 4

The transaction between the client and Hughes did not take long. The man, Andre, was very satisfied to have the job taken care of and gladly paid the four hundred francs he had offered. Hughes was so pleased with Erik's work, he split the payment evenly between the two of them.

After the client had disappeared in his carriage, Hughes glanced over to see Erik idly examining his fingernails, apparently waiting further instructions. However, he didn't want to send him back home just yet.

"Erik," he said, and the tall man looked over at him. "Come with me for a moment. I would like you to meet someone, one of my men. You strike me as being similar to him and I believe you two would get along quite nicely."

The man Hughes spoke of was a menacing fellow. Large and burly in stature, the employee, known as Jacques, was also an experienced killer. He favored the dagger as his weapon of choice, unlike Erik, but he carried similar traits. They both were cold, they both killed swiftly and nonchalantly, but Jacques was sarcastic and darkly humorous; two attributes Hughes had not observed in Erik yet.

The two men made their way far down the street until they reached a tiny dark flat. Hughes rapped three times on the door, waited a moment, then knocked twice. The door slowly creaked open and they were admitted into the building.

Erik stared around in the darkened room he had just entered. It smelled very strongly of tobacco, wine, and something else, an odd scent that Erik recognized from the one or two brothels he had visited several years ago. The smell of sex. It was not a pleasant scent, in fact, it triggered a few embarrassing memories in Erik's mind and he became annoyed.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Erik saw a man standing before them, dressed in dirty trousers and a rumpled white undershirt. He had dark blonde hair that was badly in need of a trim and his rough face was unshaven. Sitting behind him on a moth-eaten sofa was a young prostitute, dressed in nothing but a corset and daring undergarments, her hair wild and her lips very red. Her large eyes seductively traveled over Erik's body, lingering below his belt, and settling on his mask. She winked at him and innocently sucked on her fingertip. Erik returned her gaze with hard eyes, uninterested. Ever since those previous visits to whorehouses, the women of the night had lost their appeal. They were dirty, rough, rude and greedy. They reminded him of those damn Gypsies.

The man sitting next to the girl squeezed her breast playfully and whispered in her ear. The whore grinned and exited the room, heading into a door across the room and shutting it.

"Well, my man," the stranger said to Hughes, standing up with a groan and adjusting his shirt a little. His black eyes shifted briefly to Erik and then back to the older man. "What brings you here?"

Hughes gestured to Erik. "Jacques, I've brought my newest man here to meet you. He's going to be a fine employee; he's already carried out his first assignment flawlessly. I thought you two might make a good team. His name is Erik."

Jacques looked again at Erik, harder this time. He snorted a little when he saw Erik's fine cloak, slightly wrinkled linen shirt and formal trousers. "Pardon my saying so, but you look the part of a dandy, monsieur," he laughed, folding his arms. "Not often I see one of Hughes men looking ready to attend an opera."

Hughes cleared his throat in warning. "He's the man behind the Opera Ghost phenomenon, Jacques. We just picked him up from the Opera last night."

At this tidbit of information, Jacques leaned his head back and grinned calmly, realizing his mistake. "I see. Impressive, monsieur O.G. It's no wonder you are able to afford such fine attire, then, what with those monthly twenty thousand francs going in your pocket, eh?"

Erik's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Jacques gestured to the coffee table, where two bottles of red wine and a couple of wine glasses sat. "Care for a drink?"

Hughes declined, as he had an appointment to keep, but he encouraged Erik to stay. He obviously wanted the two of them to get to know each other, so Erik reluctantly agreed. As Hughes left, the burly man took a seat on a rickety chair and offered Erik the disgusting sofa. He delicately seated himself, hoping the mold would not leave stains on his cloak.

The wine was decent, definitely not the finest Erik had tasted, but he could stomach it.

Jacques leaned back in his chair, legs spread lazily, one hand upon his thigh and the other swirling the wine in the glass. "So, Erik," he said, taking a sip, "you're the new one, are you?"

"Yes," Erik replied flatly.

"And you've taken out a target already?"

"Yes," said Erik, taking another taste of the wine. "I do not like to waste time."

Jacques nodded. "What do you prefer to use?"

Slowly setting his glass down, Erik withdrew the black lasso from his cloak. "I only use this, a Punjab lasso."

Jacques leaned forward, staring down skeptically at the thin cord. "Punjab, you say? Why the odd name?"

"I learned to use it in Persia, where I was a royal executioner," Erik replied, his heart swelling with pride a little. He highly doubted this man could top such an unusual and deadly position.

Jacques was silent for a short moment. Then, he smirked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Say...what do you say to a little show of skill, right here in this room?"

Erik raised his eyebrows behind the mask. "A show of skill?"

Jacques nodded eagerly, standing up. "You display your methods on me—not with the intent to kill, of course—and I display mine on you. See if the other can foil the other's moves. I want to see how good you are, and I assume you would like to see the same of me."

Now Erik got to his feet, a smile slowly lifting his lips. "Very well, then. You swear no harm will come to me, I swear I will not hurt you."

The big man placed his hand on his heart. "I swear to God."

"Then I swear to your God."

The two men stepped back a little from each other. Erik shed his cloak on the sofa.

"You first, O.G."

Erik smoothly snapped the lasso in both his hands, wrapping the end around his wrist. He examined his opponent with cold eyes. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the lasso hissed through the musty air and wrapped tightly around Jacques' throat before he could defend himself. Erik did not pull hard as he would if he intended to kill, but he tugged just a little, reveling in the pleasure of control.

Jacques was obviously surprised. He had not expected to be trapped so quickly, and the slight pressure the man was putting on his throat was only a sample of the phantom's strength. He could kill him in seconds if he so pleased.

"Quite impressive," Jacques said, slipping the noose off his head. "You are fast. Now lower your weapon and let me show you how I work."

Erik drew back his lasso and coiled it. Jacques approached him until he was but three feet from him. His green eyes watched the larger man, watching his hands. He didn't even know what sort of weapon he used.

The killer was faster than he looked. In several moves, he had reached out and seized Erik's arm, wrenching it behind his back, turned him around and pressed a large, silver dagger to his throat. Erik did not have the strength to push the man's thick arm away with his free hand, and the way his own arm was twisted behind his back was crippling. Jacques's physical power was his most outstanding skill.

"You prefer the blade?" Erik said, unnerved with the fact that he could not see his attacker.

"Yes. She has always been loyal to me and strikes true," Jacques replied in his ear. Erik smelled the wine strongly on his breath. He expected him to loosen his hold, but to his alarm, Jacques twisted his arm higher and more painfully. The dagger was being pressed harder to his throat.

"Now listen to me carefully, phantom," Jacques said calmly. "I'll work with you, but under no circumstances are you to take my place as chief assassin here. I have been working with Hughes for years. He trusts me. He likes you, but I don't want you to take his approval as a sign of favoritism. I am the favorite here. Do you understand?"

Erik opened his mouth, but the man pushed the dagger teasingly against his jugular vein beneath his skin. To his disgust and shock, he also felt that the killer was becoming aroused against his body. Now he understood the necessity for the whore in the other room. Jacques' source of sexual arousal was murder; he relieved his needs with the girl.

At last, Jacques shoved Erik away from him, tucking his blade back in his belt. Erik was enraged, blood rushing hotly through his veins. How dare this animal make a mockery out of him; how dare he touch him with this filthy, perverted hands. Erik killed for revenge; this man killed for his own physical pleasures.

"Rotten bastard," Erik hissed, and before he could think, he'd retrieved his lasso and the noose was tightly wrapped around Jacques' throat. He yanked hard, bringing the man to his knees, and held him to the ground with his boot against the back of his neck. He pulled hard, closing off his airflow. Jacques' face turned red and he writhed, clawing at the noose.

"You will not touch me again. If you lay your hand on me I will strangle you for hours until I decide when you should die."

He released the choking man and left him gasping and coughing on the floor. He grabbed his cloak and stalked out of the house.

* * *

A/N: thanks again for all your feedback! It is great to have opinions on the story from other's points of view.


	5. Chapter 5

During the next few days, Hughes began to experiment with and observe Erik's skills at their fullness. Looking carefully through his paperwork from clients, he had assigned Erik different targets with varying degrees of difficulty in terms of discretion and the physical strength of the target. Each time Hughes was not disappointed with Erik's cunning, stealth and flawless ability to kill quickly and quietly. He had already dispatched six targets, four men and two women. Fortunately, Erik did not falter when it came to killing women, as many of Hughes' men did. He got rid of them with just as much ease and speed as his male targets.

Meanwhile, Erik used his earnings to purchase a larger, more generous flat. He was highly pleased with the bath and the larger bed. He was also beginning to gain more trust in Hughes as his employer, slowly forgiving him for his crude actions in his capture. Obviously the man liked him, and Erik relished this sort of rare admiration. Never before had another human given him so much praise.

Now, in the early evening, Erik stood before his small mirror, combing back his washed raven hair and tying it behind his head with a navy blue tie. His full leather face mask stood out so darkly against the paleness of his exposed lips and chin, and his green eyes staring blankly into the glass held no emotion.

Truth be told, he was tired. The strength and stamina it took to kill a fellow human was incredibly draining, and he had dispatched quite a few targets over the last several days. He wanted to rest. Unfortunately, tonight Hughes had requested that he meet with him at a small bistro down the street to discuss business. He had a feeling he would not sleep fully that night.

Erik shrugged on his cloak, put on his wide-brimmed hat and left the flat, stepping onto the street and into the cold night air. There were a considerable amount of citizens walking about at this time, as it was a Saturday night, and many couples were going out to eat at a fine restaurant or cafe. No one noticed the tall, solitary man as he swept down the street, shrouded in his gigantic winter cloak.

As he approached the little bistro, Erik stopped in his tracks. His eyes caught sight of that disgusting creature, Jacques, sauntering into the same building. He began to dread that this certain assignment was going to be a two-man job, and that Hughes had selected Jacques to be his partner.

Now disgruntled and reluctant, Erik entered the warm, dimly lit bistro, his hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes scanning the place. He spotted Hughes sitting at a table at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind an antique curtain. He was sitting with another well-dressed man about his age. Hughes noticed him from across the room and motioned for him to come.

He approached the table and took a seat, keeping his hat on. To his dismay, Jacques also seated himself on the chair beside him, spreading his legs in that rude, lazy fashion. He gave Erik a side glance and smirked.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Hughes said, pouring the two men a glass of wine. "Allow me to introduce to you the Comte de Chagny, Philippe." He gestured to the man sitting beside him. The Comte was a handsome, well groomed fellow, with graying hair, a neat mustache and cool blue eyes.

"Monsieur," Erik greeted him quietly, while Jacques simply nodded and grinned, swirling the wine in his glass.

The Comte smiled a little, folding his hands on the table. "Good evening. I've requested this meeting with you to discuss the possible elimination of my brother, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, and my future sister-in-law, Christine Daae." He removed a small photograph from his coat pocket and laid it on the table. The grainy sepia image was of a young man who resembled the Comte, with a gentle smile touching his lips. His arm was around a young woman who looked about the same age...a beautiful thing, with elegant eyes, nose and lips, her hair wrapped up behind her head. Her pale face was calm and passive.

"My brother has always been the favorite of my late mother and father," Philippe said, suddenly sounding bitter. "Upon their passing, Raoul inherited the de Chagny estate and the hundred thousand francs promised to him by my parents, while I was given the holiday cottage in the country and considerably less of their wealth."

Philippe glanced down at the photograph on the table. "In addition, I love Raoul's fiance, Christine. From the moment I laid eyes on her my passion for her has not dissipated. She rejected my advances, and wished me to leave her. Her behavior has angered me to no end, and if I cannot have her, then no one, including my brother, will. I wish to have her dispatched as quickly and as painlessly as possible."

The Comte tucked the photograph back into his coat. "My brother is holding a masquerade dinner party at the de Chagny estate tomorrow night. I wish for both of you to attend, and carry out the kill in secret. It will be easy to enter the building undetected by the servants. Here, I have drawn up a map of the building. The back entries are the most preferable way to get in." He handed them each a piece of parchment.

"And payment?" Jacques drawled.

"I'm offering five thousand francs, for you and for the other gentleman here."

Erik was pleased to hear such a high figure. That money would pay well for his monthly dues on his flat, several new sets of clothing and satisfying food and wines.

"Just sign this document here, monsieurs," the Comte said, sliding a paper towards them and setting a pencil beside it.

Erik quickly signed the document with a single cursive "E", while Jacques signed his entire name with a lazy scrawl.

Hughes shook hands with the Comte. "It is done then, monsieur. The assignment will be completed tomorrow night."

* * *

On the way back from the bistro, Erik walked with Hughes, as they lived reasonably close to each other. Both were quite relaxed from the wine. Hughes lit his pipe and offered it to Erik, who took a few short puffs.

"You two will do well," Hughes said confidently, taking the pipe again and drawing on it. "The nature of the location, amount of onlookers and the high profile of the targets makes this assignment difficult, but I am positive it will be carried out flawlessly."

Erik only nodded, his hands in his pockets, head lowered. "Monsieur...I must confess I do not like working with Jacques."

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Slowing his pace a little and dropping his voice, Erik explained. "He kills with very different motive than I. I kill for my own revenge upon mankind. He kills for sexual arousal. He demonstrated this while I was visiting him, and it made me highly uncomfortable."

Hughes coughed a little. "Ah, Erik, I am sorry, but no matter what our motives, though they may be a bit...strange... we must cooperate with each other."

Erik snorted. "A disgusting creature...he should not even be granted the title of assassin. If one is to kill, one must have good and appropriate reason."

Giving him a strange look, Hughes asked, "what are your reasons for your revenge?"

Erik stopped, casting Hughes the hardest glare he had ever seen. It was so cold that he stepped back a little, to distance himself from this highly dangerous man. Obviously, he had crossed an invisible line. He almost expected to be struck or attacked, as he stood there, being regarded by that deadly pair of eyes.

"Being tortured," Erik whispered calmly, "enduring years of cruelty by human hands."

He gave the man a final icy stare and stalked away, leaving Hughes with a dull feeling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! Let me know what you think about this chapter, I'm not very satisfied with it and I'm not sure what you will think of it.


	6. Chapter 6

The house was incredibly large. Generous with multiple rooms, a neatly kept front lawn and residental gardens, the De Chagny manor was a beautiful building. Healthy oak trees lined the walk up to the front porch, the setting sun gently bathing their leaves and creating soft spots upon the ground.

Erik stood in the cover of one of the lush gardens on the side of the house, cloaked and hooded, his eyes scrutinizing the lattice on the siding of the building. It ran alongside a window, conveniently offering entrance into the place. Of course, he had no desire to go into the house now; the masquerade started in three hours. He had decided to locate and plan his entrance into the house early, to be prepared, hopefully more so than Jacques, that lazy maggot he loathed so much.

Hughes didn't understand Erik's discomfort with that man. _"We must cooperate, no matter our motives,"_ he had said. It was quite plain that Hughes didn't care for his employee's concerns so long as they did not threaten to leave and he still received part of their money.

Jacques perfectly fit the mold of nearly every man Erik had known in his lifetime. Hungry for money, sex, violence and other cheap thrills, cold heart overflowing with pride. Truth be told, Erik was also aware of his own icy heart and his subtle pride, but never had he lusted over a victim as he dispatched them. Unless his prey had been particularly cruel and violent towards him, Erik did not prefer to draw out a death, either. He killed quickly and quietly, and that was that.

Erik was alerted from his thoughts when he saw a polished black carriage, drawn by a fine stallion, pulling up onto the walk. Inside the vehicle, he spotted a pair of male shoes alongside a lacy blue dress behind the cover of the raised top. These could be his targets.

Still reasonably well hidden behind the foliage in the gardens, Erik moved swiftly along the small stone path. He felt, with an assignment as tricky as this, he should size up his targets to determine their strength. The girl would not likely be a problem, but the young man could put up a struggle.

As quietly and quickly as he could, Erik climbed up the lattice, thick with vines, on the side of the house. Once he had reached the window, he leaned over and carefully looked in.

The window was at least ten feet above the ground floor. Beneath, inside the house, was a beautifully furnished parlor, with an excellently crafted coffee table, end tables and generous sofas, and a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Erik stared at the door on the wall opposite him which was just beginning to open.

In walked a man, wearing a day suit, consisting of gray trousers, powder blue jacket and a dark red necktie. He removed the gray hat he wore and set it down on one of the side tables, revealing a healthy head of blond hair. He had a smile most women would call charming, along with a small mustache the same color as his hair. Erik could see that he was probably quite popular among the ladies, what with his good looks, wealth and social status.

Behind him walked a young woman in a rose colored dress with white ribbon trimming. She had on silken gloves and wore a decorated hat. She grasped the man's hand affectionately for a moment before she delicately seated herself on the sofa and removed the hat.

She was a beautiful creature indeed. She had a porcelain complexion, a softly arched neck leading up to a fine facial profile. Small nose, high cheekbones, rosy lips, and a pair of large eyes. Her dark hair was pinned up intricately on the top of her head.

The young Vicomte sat down beside her, taking her gloved hand and kissing the exposed skin of her wrist. His lips moved, speaking words Erik could not hear, most likely some silly love poems or other sweet nothings. The young woman gave her fiance a gentle smile.

Erik mused, as he continued to watch this exchange take place, that he had never seen such an innocent display of affection take place before. Of course, he knew such relationships existed between few couples, but he hadn't witnessed one with his own eyes, and he found it quite interesting to watch. The men he had seen had always been rough and hungry with lust, the women greedy, dirty and uncaring.

Once he had finished his observation, Erik carefully climbed down the lattice and left the property, slipping his suddenly warm hands into his pockets. He thirsted for a small drink before tonight, and a nap couldn't hurt as well.

On the street, he caught a cab back to his flat. Upon opening the door, he removed his cloak and hung it on the back of the wooden chair at his table. He took a bottle of brandy from a cupboard and poured himself a glass. Half-heartedly, he opened up his other cupboards but decided to pass on his meager supply of crackers, breads, dried meats and cheeses. His appetite was rarely large, and his thin, sinewy body showed the results. He had determined some years ago that his decreased interest in food was due to being deprived of it as a younger man; he'd simply become accustomed to a very small diet.

Taking a seat at his table, he began to drink his brandy, beginning to run over the night's plans in his mind. Judging by what he'd observed today, the Vicomte did not seem to be a difficult target to take down. Relatively slender in build, a smaller man than Erik, he did not look as if he would put up much of a fight. The girl, of course, was so delicate that she would not be a problem.

For some strange reason unknown to Erik, the photograph of the young couple that he had viewed the previous night slowly returned to his memory. He could see their young, sepia-toned faces staring at him with their gentle eyes and their soft smiles. The Vicomte, with his handsome face and blonde mustache, and his fiance, in her elegance, with her large eyes and dark hair.

A cold hand suddenly clenched at his stomach. The sensation was unfamiliar. The brandy on his tongue suddenly tasted unpleasant, and his heartbeat picked up ever so slightly.

Becoming restless, Erik sat back and analyzed this new feeling, trying to determine why he felt this way. Could it be he was actually nervous about the impending assassination? Was he afraid of being captured, perhaps, with so many onlookers there?

_No..._he thought as he leaned forward, head lowered, his hands swirling the brandy glass. _I don't want to kill them. _

Those words had crept into his head, but he did not recognize them as his own.

It was strange. He could not recall a previous time when he had felt so reluctant about killing, save for the first time he had ever done it, in his younger days. The first man he'd ever killed was a wicked monster, some old Gypsy who had captured Erik while he had been huddled half-naked on the streets of an unknown town. He'd followed the man, lured by his promises of hot meals and a warm bed. Instead, for the next several months, Erik found himself on a leash, starving and ill, pulled around by the Gypsy and displayed as a human oddity on the streets. He was like a feral dog back then, on his hands and knees, growling and panting for breath past the tight rope around his neck.

It was at that time that Erik had developed his desire to kill. He did it one night, having loosened the bonds around his wrists, a surprising feat for one so weak. He'd strangled the man with his leash, and though he had been frightened, he'd marveled in the ease of the murder.

From that day on, Erik killed without hesitation, by his own desire or by another man's orders...

...so why was he now thinking twice about this?

* * *

After attempting and failing to take a rest, the time to leave began to approach. Erik began to dress formally for the event, taking out the fine evening suit he'd purchased that morning from a wrapped paper package. When he'd slipped on his tailcoat, he turned to look at himself in the mirror. Covered almost head to toe in black, he examined his smooth white linen shirt, his trousers and his highly polished shoes. He'd had his mask cleaned and shined as well, so it looked a little more acceptable for a party. His hair was pulled tightly back and tied. He thought he looked quite inconspicuous.

He was still feeling uneasy.

_Calm yourself, Erik, _he chided himself as he put on his cloak and hat. _Nerves only botch a kill. _

Erik left his house, locking the door and approaching the street. It was a bit of a challenge to flag down a cab; the city was bustling and there were many people riding to their destinations. After several minutes of standing on the curb and looking quite foolish, Erik managed to catch a carriage. He gave the address to the driver, opened the door and seated himself inside the darkened vehicle.

Unexpectedly, the door on the other side opened and a man hopped in the seat beside him. Erik tensed in the stranger's presence, his hand automatically slipping inside the pocket that contained his coiled lasso.

"Evening, le fantome."

It was Jacques.

"Damn you," Erik hissed, while Jacques laughed. "Why are you here?"

The man gave a false look of hurt. "Do you not enjoy riding with me?"

Erik cast him a steely glance. "No, as a matter of fact. I cannot stand you. Do not touch me," he added, brushing away his hand that was sitting too close to his leg.

A pleased smile coming over his lips, Jacques did not seem disappointed at all in this news. "What an odd coincidence. I hate you as well. Cowardly little dog, always hiding behind your mask. Afraid of real weapons, preferring to use a piece of string." He said all this in a smooth sentence, his grin never faltering.

Erik flushed beneath his mask, his hand flexing in his pocket. "Useless bastard worm, crawling on your belly, eating dirt. Masturbating for hours like the fatted pig you are."

Jacques' smile suddenly seemed forced. Erik silently raged. Both their eyes were locked on each other.

"I never wanted to do this assignment with you," the man said, leaning back in his seat.

"I didn't want to do it with you, either."

"I'll have you know that I'm killing the girl. You can take the man." Jacques announced.

Erik glared at him. "I will take who I please."

"If you say so."

His temper had boiled over. Erik's hands darted from beneath his cloak to Jacques' thick neck, his thumbs pressing hard on his windpipe, but his opponent was quick; he felt the point of that cold blade pressing against his heart.

"If you try it, this knife goes in," Jacques whispered past Erik's locked fingers. "You can't kill anyone with a hole in your heart, you know."

Erik smirked, eyes glowing with enraged fire. "Well, we can test the truth of that assumption, can't we?"

"The De Chagny residence," the driver announced from above their heads, interrupting the impending violence. The two men reluctantly drew away from each other, hearts pounding and tempers flaring. After the job was finished, perhaps then they would have a chance to scratch out each other's eyes.

* * *

A/N: thank you so much for your feedback.


	7. Chapter 7

The two men entered the residence separately. Erik refused to wait for Jacques to put his mask on, and in addition, he did not want to draw attention to himself should Jacques begin to act like an idiot. He entered alone, stepping onto the porch and into the brightly lit house. A man at the door took his coat and hat for him. Beneath a gorgeous crystal chandelier, the room was bustling with masked guests. The men dressed in frills, high collars and long tails, the women in extravagant, lacy dresses with slightly exposed shoulders and a generous view of their lifted busts. They fanned themselves and giggled, while the men eagerly chatted on with them, red-faced as they tried not to look at the ladies' scandalous display of skin.

It was quite a strange experience for Erik to see everyone wearing their decorative masks. In this moment, he did not have to anticipate odd looks or whispers, nor did he have to witness nervous people leaving the room. Not one guest here even glanced at him. A well-dressed servant offered him a champagne flute from a silver tray, and he did not pale when he looked upon him; he even gave a polite smile as Erik took the flute from the tray.

For this one night only, Erik was a part of mankind.

He sipped the fine champagne quickly, starting to wander about the room, his eyes shifting across the room. There was a string quartet playing good music in a large corner of the room; they were also masked. A few guests were dancing, and some seemed slightly tipsy already, especially the women. One in particular, an older woman, was laughing very loudly and staggering a bit in her steps.

"_Bonjour, monsieur!" _

A middle-aged man, appearing seemingly from nowhere, paused by him and extended his hand. Erik gave him a stony look, and slowly shook the man's hand. He tried to force a friendly smile, however he thought that looked like, but he quickly erased it from his lips when he saw the man's slightly disturbed expression.

"Ah...good evening to you, then!" the stranger said hastily. The man left, approaching a woman Erik assumed was a romantic partner, whispering something to her. Perhaps something akin to "look at that frightening man over there. He bared his teeth at me."

Grinning to himself, Erik sipped the last of his champagne and took a seat on an overstuffed chair to watch the festivities and to keep an eye out for his targets. He saw Jacques finally enter, and already he had a female on his arm. Erik saw this as a possible advantage. If Jacques became distracted, he could take care of the targets on his own and not have to worry about that man's crudity and bumbling.

"May I have this dance, monsieur?"

A female's finely exposed bust shifted into his view and Erik found himself face to face with a young woman in a frilly white dress and mask who had clearly had a little too much champagne. She batted her eyelashes in a fashion she obviously thought was attractive.

"No," Erik said flatly, flicking his hand to indicate that he wanted her to go elsewhere.

She frowned and pouted, swaying a little as she leaned closer to him. "Oh, why not? Don't you think I am a pretty girl?"

Uncomfortable with the closeness of her, Erik pushed her away firmly and stood up, quickly walking away. He hoped that not everyone here would be so damn pesky. He only wanted to observe, not participate.

"Good evening, monsieur Vicomte!" someone sang out.

Erik turned immediately at the name of his intended victim. The Vicomte and his fiance had indeed made an entrance into the room. The young man was finely dressed in black evening wear and masked just like all the other male guests in the room. However, Erik found himself staring uncontrollably at Miss Daae.

She wore a emerald dress, heavily decorated with silk flowers, ribbons and lace. Elegant white gloves sheathed her tiny hands. At her throat she wore a pearl necklace. Her head was the most exquisite. Her dark hair was pinned into a tight coil atop her scalp, and decorated with various pieces of jewelry. She wore a white satin mask. Her soft blue eyes gazed at the surrounding visitors with a warmth that stirred even Erik's cold heart.

_What is the matter with me?_

Erik tore his eyes away from the woman, staring hard at the polished wood flooring. The room was too warm and stuffy. The rate of his breathing and pulse had increased slightly. His hands and feet felt cold. He was loosening his hold on his control, something that should never happen, especially during an assignment.

Moving away, Erik tried to collect himself as he stood in a corner, in front of a table beneath a mirror on the wall. He could see the woman in the reflection, but he forced his eyes to remain on himself. He couldn't be having _feelings _for this girl, could he? He had heard stories of love and had always thought them irritating, boring and far too sweet for his taste. The women acted like harlots, the men acted like children.

He tugged restlessly on his fingers, bending the joints into his palm repeatedly. He must be ill. He had never behaved or thought in this fashion before. That was the only explanation. Illness...or perhaps fatigue. He had not gotten much rest over the past week. Perhaps he needed to eat.

"Is that them?"

Erik jumped at the familiar voice next to his ear. He turned to see Jacques staring hard at him from behind his black mask, and he gestured slightly at the Vicomte and his fiance.

"Yes. Yes, it's them," Erik replied.

He caught Jacques' eyebrows raising just before he turned to look back in the mirror. "I say, you're suddenly quite jumpy," Jacques said in a mock pitiful tone, as if he were speaking to a child. "What's the matter, phantom? Has a little lady ghost piqued your interest here?" He smirked and took a drink from the wine glass he held.

"Silence," Erik snapped shortly. "You must focus."

"I'd say the same to you," Jacques said, his smirk widening as he slipped his hand in his pocket. "Before I forget, Hughes told me to give this to you, in case something went wrong and you needed to finish the job quickly." Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he quickly pressed it into Erik's hand before it could be spotted by someone.

Erik stared at the heavy weapon in his palm and glanced up at Jacques. "I do not like guns."

Jacques shrugged. "I'm not the one who made the decision. He gave me one as well."

Reluctantly, Erik slipped the cumbersome thing in his jacket pocket, hoping no one would notice the lump. He was annoyed with Hughes; didn't the man trust him to do the job properly?

"I'll be by the door. I'll catch your attention, or vice versa, when the time comes," Jacques said, and walked off. In the meantime, Erik tried to become invisible as the excitement of the festivities heightened. The music became more jolly, the guests drank more champagne and wine, and the volume of noise in the room started to escalate as the men and women danced about and laughed.

Erik tried to keep his eyes on the Vicomte and Miss Daae. They were dancing together at the far end of the room, hidden behind the heads and hair of the other guests. The jewelry in her hair glittered in the lamplight.

He couldn't keep his damned breathing under control. Feeling as if he was not receiving enough air, he continued to inhale and exhale quickly and heavily. If he did not calm down he could faint, drawing plenty of attention to himself then. The job needed to be done, and then he could go home and take care of his illness. _Only a few more hours..._

Erik stood warily at the edge of the room hands held behind his back, occasionally changing his position and moving to a different location, never taking his eyes off his targets. They were both smiling and speaking in a fond manner with each other as they danced, their eyes glowing.

The room was growing warmer. Erik could feel sweat on his forehead pressing against the leather of his mask. His heart had not calmed. The guests were whirling around him at an apparently astonishing rate. The smell of wine and champagne was too strong in his nostrils.

Then he saw the Vicomte and his fiance stop dancing. They grasped hands and headed for a doorway to the right. A servant opened the door for them and they disappeared.

Erik made eye contact with Jacques across the room. The time had come.

Smoothly and slowly, Erik exited the house, passing Jacques at the front door and looking hard at him. The man lowered his head in a nod, indicating that he would follow.

After taking his cloak and hat from the man at the door, Erik left the property, made a wide half-circle around the building, and silently approached the side of the house. Shortly afterwards, he saw Jacques follow suit and walk quietly to his side. They looked up to see a dimly lit, curtained window, the only one that was lit on the entire second floor. There was a balcony and a door for access into the room.

Bathed in moonlight, the two men climbed up the lattice onto the roof, crawling like a pair of cats to the window beneath. Erik lay down on his belly and lowered his head over the side of the roof to examine the window and door more closely.

Jacques' feet scratched the tiles of the roof as he sat down.

"Did you hear that, Raoul?"

Erik's heart skipped a beat. By the sound of her muffled voice, Miss Daae and the Vicomte were directly beneath them, near the window.

"Let me go see, my love."

Erik's heart thudded painfully in his chest. The moment to kill was fast approaching. His hands were damp with sweat in his gloves. Damn it, why was he so _nervous? _He retrieved his noose and wrapped it around his hand, readying himself for someone to open the window. Jacques crept up beside him, pulling his large dagger from his cloak just as the latch on the window began to rattle.

A hand pushed the window open, and Jacques leapt onto the balcony before Erik could stop him.

"No!" Erik cried. He jumped down onto the balcony and turned to look through the open door. Jacques was in the room now, on top of a smaller man on the floor, the Vicomte, who was trying to shout through Jacques' hand over his mouth. Erik saw the blade of the dagger flash in the dim lamplight and come down with a firm, tearing thump. Again and again, the knife came up and back down onto the Vicomte's body. The man's screams were muffled.

Gripped by a bizarre urge to perform an act of good, Erik grabbed Jacques' shoulders and pulled him off the man on the floor. The two of them fell to the ground, Erik on top of Jacques. He glanced over at the Vicomte; he was bleeding from the abdomen and chest, gasping like a fish out of water and making strangled noises that sounded like cries for help.

Erik's pulse in his ears was deafening as he struggled with Jacques on the floor, both men twisted in their cloaks. Jacques fought to push back Erik's spindly hand as it tried to grasp his throat, while Erik continued to force away Jacques' dagger from his neck.

"What the hell are you doing?" the killer roared at Erik. His shirt front was spattered with blood. His eyes were mad, his hair wild, and his arousal obvious again. Erik didn't, or rather, couldn't, reply, as Jacques drew up his knee and struck Erik directly in the groin. The impact immediately crippled him, pain exploding in his abdomen. Choking and groaning, he loosened his grip on Jacques, giving him a chance to wriggle out from beneath him.

"Christine!" the strangled voice of the Vicomte cried out from the floor. Erik looked up at him through his blinding pain. The man lay crumpled on his back, face white, eyes wide, his shirtfront torn with several holes and becoming rapidly soaked with blood. "Run, Christine!" he rasped. Miss Daae, sitting on the chaise with her mouth open in horror and shock, did run—but she ran towards Raoul, falling to his side and taking his head in her arms, tearing off her mask and his. She began to cry and wail when she saw his wounds.

Jacques, having gotten to his feet, started to move towards the woman, his hand holding the bloody knife stretched towards her head. Erik, still crumpled on the floor, saw him move and grabbed his ankle. The man staggered and toppled to the floor beside him, where they became engaged in a struggle again.

"What...is _wrong_...with you?" Jacques hissed in Erik's face, his mad eyes wide.

"Don't kill them," Erik whispered.

"_What?"_

His astonished face was met with Erik's fist several times. He beat his knuckles into his jaw and the side of his head, trying to render him unconscious...however, the man seemed to be built of solid iron and did not show signs of weakness until Erik had gotten a hold of his throat and cut off the blood supply to his head. Jacques' eyes slowly became unfocused as he partially fainted, the bulk of his weight collapsing on Erik.

Erik crawled out from beneath him, got to his feet and approached the Vicomte and his crying fiance. Panting and bleeding from the and hands, he knelt and tried to assess the man's condition.

"Raoul! Raoul!" she wept, completely hysterical. She held his head in her arms, sobbing as she kissed his forehead. "Raoul, you'll be all right!"

Erik examined the Vicomte visually. He was still alive, breathing harshly, but the wounds in his chest and abdomen looked bad. The blood was beginning to soak the floor. He started to open the man's shirt.

"Go away! Get out! You've hurt him!" Miss Daae gasped when she looked up and saw Erik. Her beautiful eyes were screwed nearly shut, tears dripping down her cheeks and her chin. Her entire frail body was trembling violently from fear and shock.

Erik didn't respond as he continued to open the man's shirt and looked at the stab wounds. He could see that there was a very slim chance of survival. At least one wound had pierced his lung. The others, at least four or five, had nearly opened up the man's gut entirely; it was a miracle his intestines were not spilling onto the floor. The blood was everywhere.

"Christine, run," the dying man gasped, his glassy eyes half-lidded. His face was as white as a sheet, with a trickle of dark blood running from between his lips. He didn't have much time."Get out _now..."_

"No," she whispered, kissing his cheek again. "I'm staying with you."

The young man took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you very much."

Erik felt a lead weight slowly drop into his gut. He looked at the young woman, who stared in disbelief at her fiance who lay dying in her arms. "No, Raoul. No...we'll make you better. We'll get a doctor."

The Vicomte only smiled at her...and then his eyes gently slipped closed and his head dropped back. A rattling breath left his one remaining lung. He was dead.

Miss Daae didn't move. She stared at the white face of the man, her jaw set very tightly, tears still spilling from her eyes. She began to breath much too quickly.

A horrible cough from near the chaise lounge meant that Jacques had come to. He saw the man rising to his feet, swaying and wiping his mouth. He stared blearily at Erik, then at Miss Daae, and began to walk towards her, reading his knife in his hand.

Erik didn't know what sort of madness possessed him to seize Christine in his arms, toss her over his shoulder and run to the balcony. Before his brain could properly register what was happening, he had leapt over the railing of the balcony, one hand outstretched to break his fall and the other holding the woman tightly to his body. The impact of his landing sent an excruciating shock through his ankles and knees, nearly disabling him, but still he managed to run, his eyes set on a small horse paddock.

A deafening bang sounded behind him and a bullet struck the dirt beside him. Jacques had remembered his gun. Erik attempted to throw off his aim by weaving back and forth as he ran, but the man had a good eye and a steady hand. Another bang, and there was a blinding pain in his shoulder. He staggered, letting loose a cry.

_Don't stop...keep running..._

There was yet another explosion, fainter this time, and another bullet pierced his side, just beneath his ribs. Erik cried out again, almost losing his balance, but still he forced his exhausted legs to continue carrying him. They had almost reached the paddock...

"_Merde!" _ Jacques screamed as he fired off his last rounds and missed the man entirely. He was too far now. He watched, seething, as the man grabbed a horse from the paddock, tossed the girl onto its back, mounted and rode off. "Bastard."

"What the hell is going on up here?" A man cried, the door to the room banging open. Several concerned guests stood in the doorway, gasping when Jacques turned with the smoking revolver in his hand. Their horror was intensified when they saw a body on the floor.

"Call the constables. A man has just murdered the Vicomte and made off with his fiance!" Jacques shouted.

_You won't get very far, Opera Ghost._

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A/N: Thank you again for your feedback! Apologies for the length of the chatper; is it a lot longer than the previous ones.


	8. Chapter 8

On the outskirts of the city of Paris, a mustang, bearing two riders and wearing no bridle or saddle, came galloping up a moonlit road. Nostrils flaring, breath shooting in short jets from between his teeth, the horse tossed his head against the pale hand buried tightly in his mane. Erik was hunched over on the horse, jaw clenched hard in pain, and when his body was roughly jostled by the movements of the horse he was unable to keep a moan from passing his lips. He breathed in harsh, shortened bursts, trying to stay awake and keep his wits about him even as he felt blood dripping steadily from his throbbing wounds.

The bullet hole in his shoulder had bled the least, judging by the slight dampness of his clothing. It was the wound in his side that Erik was most concerned for. The blood had wet his shirt and jacket considerably, and from the feel of it, it had slowed a little but not stopped. He also had reason to believe that the bullet was still buried in his flesh just under his ribs. However, there was yet a larger worry of his, and that was his passenger. Miss Daae had fainted during Erik's dash across the lawn. Now she sat behind him, a dead weight on his back, and he held both her wrists in one hand in front of his body to keep her from falling.

By this time, he'd thoroughly convinced himself that he'd gone mad. There could be no other explanation for his behavior and actions a mere thirty minutes ago. Preventing the assassination of his own targets, attacking his partner, and abducting the target that was still alive; the violations were serious. Even now, as he was riding out of the city, he still could not understand why he was doing this.

He only rode for ten more minutes or so before he had to stop the horse. His body simply could not handle the stresses of riding any longer, and he feared he too would faint, rendering both of them completely defenseless. Pulling the horse off the road into the thicket, he slowly dismounted in an awkward and extremely painful movement, groaning out loud as his legs took his weight. He carefully took Miss Daae in his arms and lifted her off the horse. She felt like a corpse.

Erik gently laid her down on the ground and nearly collapsed beside her in the dirt. His sides were heaving, he couldn't catch his breath properly. His cloak came off his shoulders and he placed it around Miss Daae to protect her from cold, as she was not wearing any sort of outerwear, and then he slowly raised himself to a sitting position to examine his wounds.

The injury to his side concerned him greatly. He gingerly probed the wound with a finger, tears leaking from his eyes as he bore the incredible pain, and he could feel the smashed bullet. It was too deep to remove without some sort of tool. The bleeding had been quite extensive, and as he checked the injury more blood oozed from the gaping hole. His shirt was soaked in it.

Unfortunately, he could not check his shoulder very effectively. He could only partially feel the wound on the back of his shoulder, and assumed that the bullet was also still lodged in there, against the bone perhaps. He could not predict how well he would fare with these two bullets in his body. The risk of infection was quite high, and if he could not take care of himself, much less the young woman, Miss Daae would be left on her own.

"Damn it!" Erik hissed suddenly, the full impact of his stupidity coming down onto his shoulders with a heavy crash. He was a complete fool. This girl had obviously aroused his interests, and he had let those ridiculous feelings overwhelm his sense of reason. Now here he was, lost in a thicket outside of Paris, with this girl he'd kidnapped and two serious injuries to himself. Neither of them had any belongings, rations or money. He was wanted by the police, and now Hughes, most likely, and Miss Daae was still marked for death. He could not return to Paris.

He stared down at the unconscious woman on the ground, noticing that his cloak covered her. He'd laid it there, that's right. Why had he cared? He'd never thought about another person's comfort like that; comfort was not important. Whether they were a threat or not was of much greater importance.

Miss Daae's lovely head, with her face turned away from him, caught his eyes. He took this moment while she was not awake to stare at her. Miss Daae's hair was becoming unraveled from its careful arrangement, the dark curled strands cast across her neck and face. Her skin looked very soft in the moonlight, and so did the curve of her neck.

Very quickly, Erik reached over and touched the side of her face with his fingertips, then drew his hand back. He'd never touched a woman's face in that manner until this moment. Her flesh felt like silk, very smooth and cool.

Erik did not touch her again for the next several hours. He'd attempted to dress his wounds with strips of fabric torn from his shirtsleeves. The bandages had slowed any more bleeding, but they obviously would not hold for long. He sat there on the ground, awake for the sake of their safety, staring into the darkness. More than once his ears played tricks on him and he thought he heard footsteps approaching, but he never saw anyone. He held the revolver he'd kept in his pocket, ready to fire from afar should he actually spot danger coming towards them.

At some point in the late night hours, Miss Daae started to come to. Erik started when he heard her inhale sharply and start to shift uncomfortably beneath his cloak. He wondered what her reaction would be when she saw him.

"I'm cold, Raoul," she mumbled, burying her fists in the cloak like a small child. Erik held his breath as her eyes slowly flickered and opened just slightly. "Raoul," she murmured again. When she did not hear her fiance's voice or feel his touch, she became more restless and put out a frail, trembling hand, trying to find him. Her hand waved about in space and then rested on Erik's arm. She squeezed it gently.

"Where am I?" she whispered, her eyes opening a little more as her confusion visibly grew.

"Outside of Paris," Erik said.

His unfamiliar voice scared her. Miss Daae withdrew her hand immediately and twisted her head around to stare at him. Her eyes were large now, terror plain on her face.

"I would suggest that you not cry out," Erik said, fearing she would scream. "If you do, we will both be exposed, and we will both be killed. Please remain silent."

Miss Daae sat up quickly, edging away from him. He saw her eyes travel to the gun in his hand. "Who are you?" she whispered. The tremor in her voice pulled at his heart. "Where is Raoul?"

Erik held her eyes steadily with his. "Your fiance is dead. He was killed by an assassin."

At first, she did not seem to understand him, as if he was speaking a different language. She dropped her gaze, and she saw her fiance's blood still staining her skirts. The sight stirred her memory. To Erik's horror, she began to cry.

"Be silent," he whispered firmly. "You were to be killed along with him. If you are heard out here, you will die." His words did not have the desired effect on her; on the contrary, the volume of her cries began to escalate. He attempted to lean over and cover her mouth, but she violently pushed his hands away.

"Don't touch me!" she gasped through her tears. "You killed him!"

His patience was quickly wearing thin. He seized her arms and she began to weep and fight against him, trying to beat him with her small fists and shove him away. Erik shook her a little. "I did not kill him. Now silence, or I shall be forced to quiet you myself!"

She made an attempt to get up and flee. Erik pulled her down again to his level, managing to get his hand over her mouth and pin her arms to her side with his own arm. She fought like a mad cat against him, twisting her body and her head. Her tears dripped down his fingers.

"Be still and listen to me," Erik hissed in her ear. "I have no intention to hurt you. I'm trying to protect you from great danger. If you wish to live, you must co-operate with me. You must not cry out, and you must not struggle."

She slowly started to calm, though he could still feel her trembling. He cautiously released her and watched as she lay helplessly down on the ground, grabbing his cloak and pulling it over herself again. She still cried, but her sobs were quiet now.

After some time, she must have fallen asleep, because she made no more noise. Erik, satisfied for the time being, lay down painfully on the soil to rest. He did not intend to sleep, but his injured body needed some recovery after receiving two wounds.

However, within a few minutes, he had fallen asleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, in the early daylight, he was met with the sleek barrel of a gun pointed unsteadily between his eyes. Clutching the revolver, with shaking, awkward hands, was Miss Daae.

"D-don't...move..." she whispered.

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A/N: As usual, thank you for the feedback! It is very valuable!


	9. Chapter 9

Erik took a minute to assess the situation at hand. This was something he had, surprisingly, not expected. His captive, a young and seemingly frail girl, had stolen his revolver, and now held him at gunpoint, her intentions quite clear and firm despite the fact her hands trembled and her eyes were wet with tears. "What are you doing?" he asked her slowly and carefully. He noticed her finger was not on the trigger; it was possible she did not know how to actually use the weapon.

"I will take you back to Paris and find a gendarme to arrest you," she said in a wavering voice. "You're a criminal; a murderer and a kidnapper."

Erik's lips twitched in a faint smirk. "I do not deny your accusations, Miss Daae. However, I must warn you that your fiance's brother wishes you dead, and has assigned men to carry out the task. I don't know what lies may have been told about you in Paris. It may be in the papers that you were my accomplice in the murder of your fiance, or that you carried out the act alone. It is dangerous for you to return to the city."

The girl seemed to be processing his words slowly, two tears dripping down her cheeks at the mention of her dead fiance. She did not lower the gun, but her expression changed slightly from one of unshakable determination to that of concern, probably for her own safety. "Philippe?" she whispered, visibly stunned.

"Then I shall find a policeman in another town," she said, taking a shuddering breath and gathering herself. "Come along. Rise to your feet."

He hesitated, staring into her tearful blue eyes hard, then allowing his gaze to travel over her face. He was surprised how attractive she looked with her dark hair nearly completely loose from its pins, tumbling in a mess over her shoulders.

After a minute of silence, he tried to raise his upper body with one arm, but let out a hiss and lay back when a sharp, hot pain burned in his side and shoulder wounds. He heard Miss Daae give a startled gasp and glanced at her. She'd dropped the gun slightly, her wide eyes staring at the bloodstain in the side of his shirt.

"You are injured?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes. Shot," Erik replied, taking a heavy breath. "Here, and in my shoulder."

He could almost see her mind working as she thought about this new information. Her eyes, he noticed, went to the horse standing nearby and back to in the direction of Paris. It was quite obvious what she was thinking.

"Will you leave?"

She glared at him, as if she were annoyed with the fact that he had read her mind, but in a moment her face had grown troubled again. Toying with the large gun in her tiny hands, she looked again at his injuries, then to his masked face.

"What is your name?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Erik."

Her expression did not change. She sighed loudly and deeply, as if she had come to a final decision. "I will take you to a doctor. After he has tended to you, I will find a gendarme to take you to prison."

"Agreed, Miss Daae," Erik answered flatly. He would work his way out of the prison factor later. He started to get to his knees, gritting his teeth against the pain from his wounds. Every aching muscle in his body was crying out for more rest. A splitting headache throbbed from deep in his brain. He could see Miss Daae standing nearby with the gun, watching as he struggled to his feet with visible difficulty. She hadn't made a move to help him, and understandably so; after all, she still suspected him of murdering the Vicomte. She was bitter.

Once he was standing, bent over in agony, Miss Daae approached the resting horse and guided the animal over to Erik. "Mount," she ordered, gesturing up to the horse's back. Erik shot her a look that suggested she must be joking, but the stony look on her face seemed to indicate that she was completely serious.

Mounting the horse was a slow and incredibly painful task for Erik. Due to his tall height, he only needed to hoist his body onto the animal's back without a leg up, but as he started to pull his weight up with his arms, he let loose a strangled groan when the pain burned white hot in his wounds. He glanced at Miss Daae, hoping to convey to her that he could use assistance, but she only stared at him with those cold eyes.

"Do you enjoy seeing me in pain?" Erik asked icily, sweat dripping down his neck from the effort.

She did not reply, but he thought he saw her lips twitch.

For the first time in this expedition, Erik felt anger towards the girl. He set his jaw and hoisted the rest of his weight onto the horse, gasping for breath as he leaned forward on the animal's back. "Do you have a cord?" Miss Daae asked of him, clearly reveling in the power she had over him as she aimed the gun in his direction again. "If I am to take you prisoner, I must tie your hands."

Growling deep in his throat, Erik slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out his lasso. "Here. Do as you please." He would let her play her little game, for now. She thought she had complete control over him, but the truth was, at any time he could regain his weapons and take her captive once more. She obviously liked make-believing she had taking him prisoner, and if that was what it took to keep her calm, he would allow it for the time being. He grinned when he felt Miss Daae start tying his hands behind his back with his lasso. Her knots were so simple and so weak. It was almost endearing, the way she thought she was so clever.

Once she had finished her task, she took hold of the horse's muzzle with her hands and began to lead him. She unwisely began to direct him towards the commonly used road, where they would have more of a chance of being seen by strangers, friendly or unfriendly.

For several hours they walked along the path, and the sun began to rise high in the sky, above the sparse thicket that bordered both sides of the road. Miss Daae seemed to be faring quite well, the way she walked with her skirts in her hand. Erik felt as if he were being cooked alive in his heavy coat and began to grow extremely thirsty. His tongue was dry, his throat parched. He did not understand why Miss Daae was not also showing signs of fatigue.

"Let us stop for a moment," she said calmly after another hour had passed. "I feel weary and must rest my feet." She didn't even cast him a glance as she removed her dainty shoes and began to rub her small feet.

The sound of horse hooves in the distance behind him made Erik turn his head.

Far down the road behind them, a man on a galloping steed was headed in their direction. Erik quickly slipped his hands free of his lasso, wrapping it firmly around his right hand. He nudged the oblivious Miss Daae with the toe of his shoe. "Get on, now!"

She turned to look, a look of shock on her face when she saw his freed hands. "What!..." she cried, but Erik grabbed her arm firmly, looking at her with the hardest gaze he could muster.

"Get on behind me. _Now." _

As he pulled her, she struggled to mount the horse. Erik slapped the animal's hide with his open palm, and the stallion galloped off. The man was not too far behind them now. Whether he was only a harmless traveler or someone in search of them, Erik didn't know, but now was not the time to take chances.

The cooled wind, coupled with his pulse, roared in his ears as he held on to the horse tightly. He felt Miss Daae's hands grab his shoulders as he took a rather sharp bend in the road. On and on they thundered, never slowing even as the horse began to tire. When they approached a more dense part of the thicket, Erik guided them off the road and into the trees. If they could get deep enough into the forest, their pursuer would lose them.

Miss Daae gave small cries of fear as they weaved in and out of the slender trees, nearly brushing up against the bark at times. It was growing darker; the vegetation was becoming thicker, a sign that they were quite far from the road. Erik pulled up on the horse's ears to slow him. The animal was panting and snorting heavily. With adrenaline rushing through his veins, Erik ignored his pain and dismounted, facing the direction they had come from. His lasso was ready in his hand should the stranger near them, but he could see no sign of the rider. He stood there for a few minutes in silence, listening and watching, but there was nothing. They had lost him.

"We cannot travel on the road," Erik said, tucking his lasso back in his pocket. He turned around to look at Miss Daae, who was still sitting on the horse, her eyes wide and terrified. "We are too easily spotted."

He suddenly felt incredibly hot, his body sweating heavily underneath his layers of clothing. Examining the bullet hole in his side, he discovered that he was bleeding again. His breath was coming in short bursts. _God, _he thought, as he began to feel quite lightheaded. _At this rate, I'll be dead before she can find a doctor._

Erik realized too late that he was fainting as he slowly dropped to his knees and collapsed onto the ground.

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A/N: As always, I am very grateful for your feedback! I am very glad you are enjoying the story so far.


	10. Chapter 10

Sitting awkwardly on the winded horse for several minutes, Christine stared at her kidnapper lying unconscious on the ground. The window for escape was gaping wide open. She was on the horse, she could take control of it and flee, find a police officer and bring him to her captor, and at last, she could mourn her fiance in peace.

...But she did not make a move to take the horse's mane and guide him out of the thicket. Instead, she slowly and awkwardly clambered down from the large animal's back and approached the prostrate man slowly. Several possibilities were circling in her mind; she could somehow find a way to transport him to the nearest town and order his arrest, she could simply leave him her and be on her way, or she could muster up the courage to kill him herself and be done with it.

Christine knelt down beside her kidnapper, placed a hand on his shoulder and applied pressure. When he did not make a sound or move at all, she turned him a little, pushing his shoulder so that he lay on his side. She examined him fully, as she had the advantage now, and noticed that the wound in his side was bleeding freshly. His rumpled white shirt was stained heavily with the blood.

She realized, as she stared coldly at his still masked face, that she had not really looked at him closely since she had woken in the forest. He was a very tall, thin man with spindly hands. His hair was black and disheveled, tied up behind his head, and his mouth was bloodless, lips thin; his skin was pale like bleached parchment. Christine had half a mind to remove the mask he wore, but she did not have a desire to touch him any more than she had to. This man was a killer, an accomplice in Raoul's murder; filth to be cleansed off her hands.

Straightening herself, she considered what to do now. He seemed too heavy to move, and she was not entirely sure if she should abandon him here. It was true that he had information about the men who were involved in Raoul's murder, and whether or not they were still searching for her. His knowledge could prevent her capture.

First and foremost, Christine decided as she pressed a hand to her forehead, she needed to find food, water, and help for herself. Mounting the horse proved to be incredibly difficult, and controlling the animal was even more challenging, but somehow she managed to make her way back to the main road and continue on.

The midday sun had reached its peak in the sky now, heating up Christine in her heavily layered evening gown. The dress, she realized sadly as she looked down upon it, was filthy and damaged beyond repair. Her shoes had suffered a similar fate, all scuffed up and caked with dirt. Her hair, all undone and blowing in the breeze, was surely a horror, and her face must have been streaked with dust.

"Raoul," she said unexpectedly, and suddenly her face contorted tightly and she began to cry. More than anything, in this moment, she wished to feel Raoul's tender arms around her, she wanted to see his reassuring smile. She wanted to hear his soft, gentle voice saying_ "everything will be all right, my love",_ like he would always tell her when she had been upset over small, trivial things. But the only thing at her side now was empty space, dust from the road swirling in the air.

Her stomach churned when she remembered the previous night. The image of her fiance lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood burned fresh and painfully in her mind. She could still see his glassy and strangely calmed eyes staring at her just before the moment of death.

Philippe. The man called Erik said it had been Philippe who had arranged for his death. She'd no idea that he had hated his brother so deeply. They had not always gotten along well, that she had been aware of, but never had she thought about the possibility of an assassination. Once she had seen the masked man put in jail where he belonged, she would seek out Philippe and see him punished for this hideous deed.

An hour passed, than another. Thin clouds slowly streaking across the sky began to thicken and eventually grow dark, casting the young woman on the road into shadow. Nature gave no mercy as rain began to fall in a very light mist that gradually escalated into a harder shower. It was late afternoon when Christine, wet and dripping, rode into an unknown little town and sought out a friendly-looking, occupied house. The first door she knocked on opened to reveal an older man, in a droopy shirt and gray trousers, with silvering hair on his head and a bristly mustache and beard. He peered curiously at her, at her wet and ruined evening gown.

"May I help you, mademoiselle?"

Christine swayed on her feet a little. "I need help, monsieur."

oOo

She must have swooned a little, because soon after she had stepped into the warm house, Christine only remembered being guided to a small sofa and falling onto it before she drifted off. Now she began to wake to the sound of soft voices and a glow of light nearby. She discovered that she was now on a bed instead of the sofa, covered up with an old blanket and nearly naked, from the feel of it. A woman, presumably the man's wife, was sitting on a chair to her right, tending to her with a bowl of water and a warm wet rag on her forehead.

"Thank you," Christine whispered.

The woman gave a thin smile. She was tall and quite pretty for her age, with deep brown hair rolled up at the base of her neck and few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips. She wore a plain blue dress. "Not to worry, my dear," she told her as she sponged her forehead. "I've removed all your wet clothing and tried to clean you up a bit. Fortunately, you made it inside our home before the storm grew worse. It hasn't let up yet."

Erik was still out there.

She remembered him once she became more conscious. Was he still unconscious, out in this rain? Perhaps it would not be so bad if he simply died in the cold, then she could move on in peace, alone...maybe he was already dead by now.

She was startled when the door in the other room banged open quite loudly. There was a scuffling of feet, and she heard the voice of the kind older man say something unintelligible.

Then, to her horror, she heard Erik.

"We were separated in the storm, monsieur. I saw my horse outside. How is my wife, is she all right?"

_Wife? _

He wouldn't...he couldn't have made it here on his own. She'd left him unconscious in the dirt...and he was playing the role of her _husband _now? Ah, he was a filthy, disgusting liar.

"You're in bad shape," came the concerned voice of the older man. "Shall I call for a doctor?"

"You may," said Erik, "but please let me see my wife. I want to be certain she is well."

The door opened and a dark shape slipped into the room. Erik was absolutely drenched, rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat, his sleeves and from the hem of his cloak. He was covered in mud.

"Oh, dear," the woman exclaimed, setting down her bowl and rushing towards him. She removed his sopping cloak, his hat and his jacket, dropping them in a nearby basket. She began to fuss about the blood on his shirt, but Erik gently motioned for her to leave.

"Thank you for your kindness. Please allow me to speak to her for only a minute before the doctor arrives."

The woman, casting a wary glance at Erik's mask, gave him a polite smile and obeyed, leaving the two alone. Christine stared hard at him. He was slightly hunched over, as if in pain, with one hand pressed against the wound in his side. His hair was a mess, coming out of its tie and plastered to his forehead in strands. What she could see of his face was stark white.

"You are a cruel man," she said quietly, drawing up the blankets as high as they could go, shielding her body from his eyes. "You did not give me a chance to tell the truth. Now they believe we are husband and wife, when you are captor and I am captive!"

She thought she saw him cringe a little under her accusation, but still he stared at her with those green snake's eyes. "I am protecting you," he said.

"Why did you follow me?" she hissed. "You fainted far down the road. I intended to send someone to find you, you know." Erik gave her a crooked smile with his white lips, approaching her bedside carefully, but still he said nothing. "I do not wish to be protected," she continued. "I wish to be on my way, to bring you and Raoul's killers to prison, and mourn in peace. Why don't you leave me be!" Unintentionally, two tears spilled down her face and she quickly wiped them away with a hand. She didn't want to cry before this man.

Erik did not move. He still stared at the bed like a stone statue, clasping his wrist tightly with one hand.

His silence infuriated her further. "Get out." Christine ordered. He obeyed and left the room abruptly, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor. Christine collapsed onto the bed, pulling the blankets over her head like a small child. The sound of her cries were muffled beneath the covers and nearly inaudible over the rain beating against the window.

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A/N: I am astonished that so many of you enjoy this story as much as you do! Of course, I am very pleased as well! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Dear readers, I've changed the course of the plot a little in my head since the last chapter. As a result, I've removed the paragraph in Chapter 10 where Erik confesses his love to Christine. Some readers felt it was too rapid, and as I sat down and re-read my current chapters, I agreed. So I've changed it around a bit, so please disregard that part of the story! Thank you and enjoy!**

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Erik left the bedroom as quickly as possible, his heart beating hard in his chest, his hands unsteady and damp with sweat. Miss Daae's enraged eyes burned in his vision. The longer he stayed with her, the more angry she was becoming, and now she was upset, hateful towards him more than ever.

He stood nervously in the center of the plainly furnished living room, a single hand still pressed to the wound in his side, that was now leaking drops of blood again. The stress and the cold wet had reopened the injury. Fortunately, within a few minutes, the front door of the home opened and two men entered. One was the older man of the house, the other, a short figure in a heavy coat and small hat, could only be the doctor. Both were soaking wet.

"Sit down, sir, before you faint," the older man instructed with a motion to the sofa. Erik did so, watching the two men carefully as they quickly removed their sodden coats and approached him. The doctor set down his bag on the floor and knelt to examine the wound. He was a short, middle-aged man with a large, trimmed mustache and beard. Behind a pair of spectacles were small blue eyes that were narrowed with concentration. He took off Erik's shirt, removed the makeshift bandages covering the injury, and began to probe the wound with cold fingers. Erik did not make a sound, but his body tensed obviously.

"Do you have some whiskey to give the man?" the doctor asked the older gentleman, who nodded and went to fetch it immediately. The doctor sighed and looked up at Erik. His eyes traveled over the leather mask, but he did not ask about it. "This will be painful, and I apologize in advance," he said, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "Shot, were you?"

"Yes," Erik said quietly as the older man returned with a bottle of whiskey and a glass full of the drink. He took it without hesitation, and drank a second glass after he had finished. The doctor ordered him to lay down as he began to search through his bag, pulling out several gleaming tools and setting them on his handkerchief on the floor.

"All right, then," the doctor sighed once more, and began his work.

The process was somewhat slow and incredibly painful. Erik lay there, his face dripping with sweat beneath the hot mask, heaving forced, long breaths between gritted teeth that made his pale, hollow chest rise and fall at a rapid rate. His long fingers were curled up into tight bony fists, trembling whenever the pain began to grow worse. The bullet was deformed and difficult to remove easily; the doctor had to maneuver carefully as he pulled it from Erik's flesh with a pair of forceps. Erik took several more glasses of whiskey during the procedure until he was moderately drunk.

Once the bullet had been extracted, the doctor dropped it in a tin plate and gave Erik a few minutes to rest before he had him turn over to remove the bullet in his shoulder. It was much harder to get out than the previous, as it was smashed against the bone and flattened out. Again, Erik could only lie there on the sofa, panting and groaning in pain, sinking his teeth into the cushion until the bullet was removed.

The wounds were then cauterized. The older man gave Erik two more glasses of whiskey as the doctor heated the small iron in the hearth. Erik could not restrain a choked scream as the iron was applied to his wounds. The older man covered Erik's mouth with a hand, not wishing for the young woman in the other room to be terrorized by the sound.

Erik fell asleep soon after the doctor had bandaged him all up and replaced his tools in his bag, and he slept long and deeply throughout the night.

oOo

In the morning he was woken by soft female voices hovering above him. He opened his eyes slowly to see the kindly lady of the house smiling down at him and pressing her hand to his forehead. Standing beside her, with a steely look of frustration on her face, was Christine. She was in a pale blue nightgown, her hand tightly clasping her wrist and her lovely dark waves of hair tied so that they draped over her shoulder.

"How are you, my dear?" Erik addressed Christine, his voice soft from being strained. He saw anger flash in her blue eyes but she forced a smile, reaching down and stiffly taking his hand in hers.

"Much better, my _love," _she replied mechanically. Erik's lips twitched in a grin, both in secret amusement and in pleasure from the feeling of her small hand in his large grip. However, she pulled her hand from him after a few moments of physical contact, her face stony once more. The kind older lady smiled at the exchange and announced that she was going to make the two of them breakfast. Upon her leaving the room, Erik glanced back at Christine's face. She was purposely looking away from him, her eyes still focused on the door that the woman had left through. Erik marveled at her beauty, still enthralling as ever despite the fact that she was furious. He wanted so badly to only touch a lock of her hair, to wind it around his finger.

"You are still angry with me," he said.

"Very much so," Christine replied in a clipped tone. "You still have not answered my question." When Erik did not respond, she sighed and repeated, "why do you insist upon protecting me?"

"It is only from the goodness of my heart," Erik replied, thinking on how ironic the statement was. "I would not want to see you die, for that would be most distressing."

"Why?" she still refused to look at him.

He hesitated for a few moments. "It would be distressing to anyone with a beating heart to see a such a gentle lady perish, mademoiselle."

For only a moment, her hard, cold expression seemed to falter at his words. For a second, he saw the soft, gentle face and eyes he had come to be attracted to, the lovely face that had been so warm...but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Tell me, why do you wear that mask?" she shot at him, still avoiding his eyes by staring at the door. Erik's breath hitched slightly, but then he sighed, casting his gaze at the ceiling.

"Burned," he said, fabricating a story on the spot. "Only several weeks ago. The wounds have not yet healed and must be protected from sunlight."

Christine nodded curtly, thrusting her jaw forward a little. "Don't you mean to say instead that you are a criminal, and you must hide your identity from me?"

"Mademoiselle," Erik replied, "I do not intend to cover up the fact that I am indeed a criminal, but I assure you that my identity is completely genuine. I am Erik, and I am a criminal...there is nothing more to be said."

"So would you then agree to me having you arrested?"

He grinned a little. "No, Mademoiselle, unfortunately, no matter how hard you try, you cannot have me arrested. I have evaded the law for years and will continue to do so. You will only be rid of me after I am convinced of your absolute safety and comfort. Then you shall hear no more of me."

She nodded again, looking quite satisfied, and finally glanced over at him. Her eyes went to the dried blood on his shirt. "Were your wounds treated properly?"

"Yes," he said.

"Well then," Christine announced, standing up abruptly. "We must leave as soon as possible."


	12. Chapter 12

Erik refused to leave without eating beforehand. Their kindly had caretakers provided both he and a brooding Christine with hot porridge, and it would be unwise to take advantage of a proper meal. As they ate in silence, Erik glanced at Christine from time to time, but she never returned his gazes. She preferred to stare at her bowl as she half-heartedly stirred her porridge.

Once they had finished their meals, the woman of the house eagerly gave them her and her husband's own clothing and insisted Erik and Christine change. Christine disappeared wordlessly into a different room, taking the folded dress, while the husband came to help Erik into the outfit, which consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of ill-fitting brown trousers. Though Erik resented the physical contact of the man assisting him, he chose to remain silent and co-operative. He could not move much with the wounds in his body, anyway.

Once he was dressed, with his cleaned cloak on his back, Erik stood up slowly with the older man tentatively supporting him. He exhaled steadily; his healing injuries stung like hell. "I thank you for your hospitality," he told the man, just as Christine re-emerged from her room. Erik glanced over at her to see her in a simple gray dress that was too big at the shoulders and too short at the hem. He also noted a pair of black slippers on her little feet. The look of complete frustration was still carved into her face.

"You are most welcome, sir, madame," the husband replied with a kind smile, just as his wife walked into the room. With a pleasant grin, she gave the couple a flour sack containing rations, two old blankets and even a small pouch of money. After thanking them quietly again, Erik bid the friendly husband and wife farewell, taking Christine's hand and leading her out of the house.

"Such a charming pair," he heard the woman say before he shut the door.

Full and at least partially rested, the odd couple returned to their journey. Christine sat silently on the horse behind Erik, allowing a large amount of space between their bodies. She did not touch him with her hands, not even to steady herself on the cantering horse. Erik could see her face in his mind's eye, her pouting lips and cold, empty stare.

"You'd best hold my shoulders," he warned, "I will spur us into a gallop. You may not be so pleased when you topple off into the road."

To his slight surprise, he felt her small hands lay themselves lightly on his shoulders. He urged the horse into a gallop then, and her grip tightened. He enjoyed the contact.

"Are you well this morning, Miss Daae?" He asked her. Unsurprisingly, he received no response. He sighed and concluded that he would just have to content himself with the passing scenery. The ground was soaked and the soil fragrant from the previous night's rain. The trees lining the path flew by, occasionally dripping rainwater on the travelers as they passed beneath them. The wet leaves shone in the sunlight.

At last, Christine spoke up. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, and Erik turned his head slightly to the side.

"Where you will be safe and content for the night," he replied.

"I want to to go home. Raoul's funeral will be held soon."

Her words, and the sorrow with which she spoke them pulled at his heart. She was tired and obviously in great distress. "I am sorry for your loss, Miss Daae, but unfortunately we cannot go back to Paris. Your life would be in danger."

"I don't mind if I'm in danger," she said coldly. "I want to see Raoul."

"You cannot."

Erik's body stiffened a little when a gun barrel was pressed against his spine. "You seem to have forgotten that I hold your gun," Christine threatened him, though her voice was weary. "Turn around immediately."

So she was playing this game again. Erik ignored her and refused to turn the horse. Christine pushed the gun more forcefully into his back.

"Now!" she cried, giving a choked sob. Still he said and did nothing. Christine's hand flashed before him, yanking on the horse's mane before he had a chance to push her away. The horse reared and bellowed in surprise, sending Christine sliding off the animal onto the ground. Erik leapt after her as she struggled to get up and flee.

"No, no!" she screamed when Erik grabbed her arm. "Let me go!" She swung the heavy revolver at his head, striking him across the temple with the barrel. His temper started to boil. Forcing her to her knees, he tried to pin her to the ground, but she writhed like a dying animal. In any other case, Erik would have gained control of her in a moment...but he held back, fearing he would hurt her.

"Help me!" Christine cried, slowly beginning to weaken under his power. Her frail body began to tremble, and tears flew from her cheeks as she whipped her head about.. Then, to his shock, she seized his waist with her arms. She was breathing loudly, making strangled sobs, and clinging to him as if she were drowning. Erik stood there stiffly, his arms pulled back from her, his lips tightly pressed and his eyes wide.

"Raoul," was the only word she whispered as she squeezed his waist more tightly.

Christine was completely silent for the remainder of the journey that day. She seemed exhausted, slumped against Erik's back astride the horse. Erik had determined that what she needed was sleep; the girl was obviously delirious from her traumatic experience and lack of rest. The sun was just beginning to disappear among the trees, but fortunately, Erik could see that they were approaching another town. This one seemed quite small as well, but it looked to be larger than the previous.

Upon riding into the town, Erik saw that it was nearly deserted, but the glowing light coming from the windows of the buildings signaled life. He rode up to a very old inn, which, judging by the loud male chatter and shouts, was very much in business. He dismounted and gently helped a sleepy Christine off the horse and into the place.

It was hot inside, and reasonably crowded with men. The air was misty with smoke in the golden lamplight, and the smell of tobacco was mixed quite pleasantly with the smell of drink. Erik held Christine's arm firmly and stood by her closely while his eyes scanned the backs of the guests. He could see no immediate danger as it was, but there was always the possibility of a fight.

At the darkened innkeeper's desk, Erik purchased a bottle of whiskey and a room. The large, round man stared at the two of them rudely before he handed over the key. It was probably not often they saw a masked man escorting such a young, helpless-looking woman.

Their room was dark and smelled musty. Upon lighting the lamp on the beside table, Erik saw a single bed and a moth-eaten chair sitting in the corner. There was a small table and two wooden chairs over near a dirty window, but otherwise the room was barren.

Christine lay down immediately upon the bed, taking with her the bottle of whiskey from under Erik's arm. He had half a mind to snatch it back from her, but her current and fragile state held him back. He sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as she took occasional swigs from the bottle, grimacing quite intensely at the flavor.

Her eyes shifted to Erik and she gazed at him. Never had he seen anyone look so tired as she did now.

"Give me your hand," she said. He obeyed. She stroked his hand, holding it to her chin.

"Raoul's hands were not so cold as yours," she sighed, "but they will do..."

"They will do?"

Christine looked at him again, rather incredulously, as if there was no possible way he could not understand what she was talking about. "Erik...if you insist on keeping me as your captive...I must ask one thing of you. Let me hold you for only a moment, let me see you as Raoul...just say nothing."

Erik did say nothing, even as Christine began to gently rub his forearms and touch his hair and ears. Her eyes had drifted closed. She did not see him as Erik the criminal now. She was seeing him as Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny and her beloved. He did not mind her touch; he was a little ashamed to admit that he enjoyed it highly. However, there was something slightly disconcerting about this illusion that she had created for herself. He wished dearly that she could see him as Erik, not as a dead man...

Like a small child, Christine wrapped her arms around his waist, curled up her body and relaxed against him. Her breathing began to deepen as she drifted to sleep.

Erik cautiously toyed with a lock of her hair.

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the long delay. The last couple of weeks at work were hellishly busy. I wrote this chapter in bits when I could, but please know that I was very tired every time I sat down to write it, so it may not be as well written as my previous chapters. Thank you for your patience!


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I apologize for the horrible shortness of this chapter. In addition to my schedule, which will become extremely packed in November and December, I have (perhaps unwisely) decided to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in which you write a 50,000 word novel in a month. Needless to say, I will probably not be updating much at this time, but I will still be updating when I can. Thank you for your patience!

The pale, cold morning soon came upon the inn, and the weak sunlight through the window slowly awoke Erik. He found himself lying crookedly on the bed, still in his clothes, with his legs hanging precariously off the side of the mattress.

Turning his head to the side, Erik saw Christine lying some ways from him, buried comfortably beneath the blankets with a rare, peaceful expression on her face. Her lips almost seemed as if they were lifted in a smile.

Erik didn't dare move for fear of waking her and suffering a verbal assault from her. She would most likely be furious once she discovered that he had fallen asleep near her during the night. He instead took this time to admire her as she slept. Her hair was softly twisted and mussed, and her fists were curled up in the sheet, drawing it up beneath her chin.

She breathed and sighed, shifting on the bed. Her eyes opened a little, bleary from sleep, and she extended a hand towards Erik, blindly searching for something.

"Raoul, come close. I am growing cold."

Erik hesitated. Still she kept up this fantasy of hers that her fiance was alive and well and sitting beside her. However, he could not resist the little hand that floated so temptingly before him, and so he took it, relishing in the smoothness of her skin.

Christine pulled her body closer to him, her eyes fluttering close again and a pleased smile on her face.

"Kiss me."

God, her demands were tempting. How easy it would be to play her lover for only a few moments, while she was accepting, and kiss and touch her however she wanted.

"Christine," he sighed audibly. Her eyes slowly opened and rose up to look at Erik's face. Suprisingly, she did not sit up and strike him for being so close to her, nor did she seem to be shocked. Disappointment was etched into her features, but he could see no sign of rage.

"Forgive me," she whispered, taking her hand away. "It is only my dreams."

"Do you wish to leave now?" Erik asked, forcing his gaze from her face and eager to change the subject.

Christine nodded, and Erik stood to put on his boots.

oOo

The day proved to be colder than the previous. The sky was overcast, blinding the sun and keeping the soil wet and sludgy. Even Erik's horse seemed to be weary, the way he hung his head and sighed. They moved at a slow trot.

Christine was seated behind him, enshrouded in Erik's cloak. She had not said a word as of yet, kind or unkind. Her tantrum and irrational behavior the previous day seemed to have purged her of all vileness and anger that she had harbored for Erik. He hoped that she would not return to her old state of mind.

Something down the road caught his eye and he pulled the horse to a stop. There were two dark shapes on horseback approaching them; two men in hats and cloaks.

"Erik..." Christine whispered. He was suddenly aware of her hand locked tightly on his shoulder. "Who are they?"

Erik did not reply as he watched the two men spur their horses into a gallop. He refrained from turning the horse about. He did not want to expose their backs to these strangers.

"Hello there," one of the men called out. Erik didn't respond to them. His hands gripped the reins tightly as they approached.

The first thing he noticed was the barrel of a revolver pointed at him from near the man's waist. The two men's faces were covered by the collars of their cloaks. He could not recognize them from their eyes, and the man's voice did not sound familiar.

"What do you want?" Erik asked them, keeping his voice steady. His Punjab lasso was in his right pocket, too far from his hand to avoid drawing attention if he grabbed it.

"Her," said the man with the gun, looking at Christine, who trembled obviously behind Erik. "She's wanted."

"What for?" Erik said.

"For being an accomplice in the murder of the Vicomte de Chagny."

Christine gasped. "I did no such--"

"Silence, mademoiselle," the man barked, directing the gun at her head. Erik's heart leapt into his throat, and he had to force himself from seizing the weapon from the man's hand.

The stranger must have seen Erik tense, because he said, "if you move, I fire."

Carefully, the two men guided their horses up beside Erik and one man picked up Christine while the other kept the gun trained on her. Christine was lifted as easily as a child from Erik's horse onto the other. Erik had no choice but to watch her tremble, her eyes wide and her fists drawn up in front of her mouth.

The two men rode off at a fast gallop down the road, Christine's white form disappearing over a crest. Erik's mind began to race.


	14. Chapter 14

The sight of the city of Paris had never been so unwelcome to Christine in her life. The closer they came, the farther Erik was growing, along with any chance of her being rescued. She still trembled on the horse. The body of the man behind her was far too close. He was breathing loudly through his nose, and he smelled so strange, like dirt or leather.

What was to become of her? These two strangers were accusing her of being an accomplice in her own love's murder. Once they reached Paris, would she be thrown in prison or taken to face a group of assassins? In a few hours, would she be dead?

"Why didn't you take the man who was with me?" she had the nerve to ask in a shaking voice.

"Our employer wanted to take care of him himself," was the short answer from behind her. Christine swallowed past the terrified lump in her throat. If Erik was going to be killed, she would never be found. Her future looked dismal.

"I swear to you, I had no part in the murder of my fiance," she said firmly, her eyes welling with tears. Who could have told such a disgusting lie?

"Tell that to Paris," the man behind her snorted. "Monsieur Philippe de Chagny made your vile reputation known to the public. You trick men with your beauty, and then once you tire of them, you dispatch them and move on. A 'demon' is what he called you."

"A...a demon!" Christine choked, completely horrified. "I...I cannot believe it! He is a liar!"

The men gave no response.

It was about noon when they entered the city. Christine lowered her head for fear a passerby would recognize her and perhaps attack her. Her pulse was roaring loudly in her ears when her captors slowed in front of a small, dirty building down a narrow street and dismounted. She did not struggle when one of the men took her off the horse and guided her by the shoulders into the door. As she walked, she felt the heavy revolver in her dress pocket knock against her knees and her heart leapt. She still had a chance, even if it was slight.

Christine was steered down a rickety flight of stairs and into a dimly lit room that seemed to be full of shadows. It was only when her eyes began to adjust to the darkness that she realized that the shadows were actually several men, sitting upon wooden chairs and a decomposing sofa. She could feel their eyes burning into her.

Someone grabbed a chair and Christine was pushed down onto it. Her thin arms were tied to the chair behind her. Her breaths came quick and shallow; surely any minute she was going to die.

"Welcome, Miss Daae," came a rough, calm male voice. She raised her head to see a stocky man standing before her, with a slight grin on his face. "My name is Hughes. Why do you look so frightened?"

"Do you not intend to kill me?" Christine whispered, suddenly starting to feel faint.

The man looked surprised, and he squatted down to her face level. He gently took her chin in his hand. "Kill you, my dear? Oh, no, no. Is that what you thought? No, you are not going to die. You were brought here for an offer."

Christine stared at him. Was this man to be believed? He could just as easily tell a lie as he could be hiding a gun in his coat. "An offer?"

Hughes nodded, his dark eyes never leaving Christine's face. "You see, originally you were to be assassinated, on Philippe's orders. Erik and another man were assigned to you and your fiance. Obviously, not everything went as planned, and Erik violated countless regulations in his actions."

Christine couldn't believe her ears. Erik was supposed to _assassinate _her? The man who swore he would not hurt her?

Hughes continued, "now, Philippe got a little carried away after your disappearance and began spreading rumors about you being a "demon" and what-not, and so now you are a wanted woman in Paris with a reasonable price on your head. If you were to go out into the streets now, you would be arrested within minutes. However, let me go back to the offer I mentioned earlier. If you join my men and receive training to be a skilled assassin, we will protect you. I know that you were assigned to die, but...you're such a pretty thing, I thought it would be a shame to let you be dispatched like any other target. And besides, it's not often we have a female with us. Perhaps you could provide some satisfaction for my men in exchange for a small sum."

A cold horror began to settle in Christine's heart. Was this some sort of joke? Surely she couldn't be expected to take this seriously! Become a whore and a murderer in exchange for protection? She pulled her chin away from Hughes, silent. She did not know what to say.

"Let her think about it," Hughes said, standing up. "In the meantime, I want arrange a posse to come with me to fetch our runaway. Come along, upstairs."

Several of the men, along with Hughes, disappeared up the creaky stairs and a door shut. Christine shuddered and began to cry at this whole helpless mess.

"Little love," came a soft voice from somewhere near the sofa. She jerked her head up, her red eyes glancing wildly about the dark room. She saw a large, imposing man sitting on the couch across from her, a disheveled looking creature with wild, matted hair and glinting eyes.

"Don't cry, my dear," he said in a syrupy voice, standing and coming over to her. He was huge, with enormous shoulders and a square chest. Christine was completely enveloped in his shadow. "You just need a little time with old Jacques here."

He knelt down before her and grabbed her ankle firmly. He ran his other hand up her leg, beneath her dress, until he was stroking her undergarments. She cried and attempted to kick him when his hand pinched her.

"I know it hurts, love, but if you're going to become our own lovely lady, you must get used to it." The man's black eyes shone as he withdrew his hand and reached up to her bosom. He opened a few buttons between her neck and her belly and slipped his hand in, running his fingers across her corset and the tops of her breasts. She squealed in terror and fought to move away from him.

"You're a fresh little flower," he hissed, buttoning her back up. "I'll pay the largest sum for a night with you, my dear."

"Get out of my sight, you beast!" she cried weakly, shaking from head to toe. The man miraculously stood away from her, looking quite pleased at her reaction, and he gave her a smile before he went upstairs.

oOo

Erik was not sure whether to follow the two men immediately or wait long enough for them to let their guard down. He had no idea if they were Hughes' men, nor did he know if they intended to kill Christine or have her taken to prison. Whatever the possibilities, he knew that he needed to act quickly.

He started to follow the two men at a fast canter, veering off the road to avoid detection. The possibility of walking into a trap was almost guaranteed, but perhaps once he was captured, he would be taken to Christine. He refused to think about what would happen if he was taken into custody only to discover she was dead.

Erik spurred the horse into a gallop when he lost sight of the two men. They had obviously taken some other path, because now they were no longer visible on the main road. Perhaps they had realized that they were being followed.

The sun was beginning to set by the time he started to see Paris. He reined the horse to a halt when he saw something else; a group of five or six men on horseback, approaching. As they drew closer he could see Hughes' distinctive form. His body tensed, preparing for rough hands.

"Don't move," Hughes called out, and his fellow men surrounded Erik's horse. Two men to his left pulled him hard to the ground and pushed him face first into the dirt while someone else began trussing him up. His wrists were bound behind his back very tightly, and his legs were tied from his knees down to his ankles. His eyes were covered with fabric and hands dug into his pockets, removing his lasso and money.

"You're a dirty traitor, you know," came Hughes' disappointed voice. Only moments later, a hard blunt object collided with Erik's head, nearly rendering him senseless. Flashes of bright light exploded behind Erik's eyes and he groaned with the incredible pain. Another impact against his head and he was unconscious.

A/N: Thanks for your feedback! You'll be happy to hear that will be uploading a little more often then I thought I was, because I dropped out of NaNoWriMo. My schedule is just too packed for me to write a novel in that amount of time. Oh well, perhaps next year I'll be less busy. Enjoy this chapter! ^_^


	15. Chapter 15

Two long hours passed by in the cellar. Christine was still alone, bound to the chair and trembling from fatigue and fear. She was not certain when her captors would return, nor did she know if Erik had already been killed. Though that man frightened her, she hoped he was not dead. He was her last chance at freedom.

Her head throbbed as she struggled to think of an alternative plan should they bring back Erik's dead body. Perhaps she could request to go out to purchase female toiletries or something similar that the men would not want to go and fetch themselves. Seducing them could also be a valuable tool. While these men seemed cunning, they might not have been the most intelligent group.

The door upstairs opened and many feet shuffled inside. Christine stiffened and looked warily at the stairwell as a dark mass of people made its way into the room. The posse had returned, hauling what looked like a man's body behind them on the floor. Christine's blood chilled.

"Hello, dear," the man called Hughes said, sounding a little out of breath as he approached her. His clothes were spattered with dried mud and his hands were dusty. He watched as his men dragged the unmoving body onto the sofa and arranged it into a sitting position.

Hughes walked over to their new captive and seemed to observe him. Christine could see that the captured man was well tied and his head covered in a strip of linen. Judging by his clothes it was obviously Erik, and judging by his rising chest it was apparent he was not dead. Christine breathed a soft sigh of relief.

"Here is your captor, and, to me, a traitor. Would you like to see him?" Hughes did not wait for her to answer before he pulled off the fabric around Erik's head and discarded it on the floor. Erik seemed to be conscious, but only partially. His eyes were half-lidded, and a large dark lump on the side of his head trickled blood down the side of his face. He looked disoriented as he stared blearily around the room.

Hughes seized Erik's hair in a fist without warning and forced his face upwards, causing Christine to tense. The older man glared at his assassin. "I am very disappointed in you. You seemed quite promising. It is too bad you cannot adhere to regulations."

"What are you going to do?" Christine asked quietly. Hughes released Erik's head and gave Christine an odd look that she could not identify.

"Kill him, of course. That is the punishment for breaking rules."

Her heart began to thump. "What rule did he break?"

Hughes sighed as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a large revolver. "Many," he said as he checked to ensure that the weapon was loaded, "but there is one I consider very grave. " He caught Christine's eyes. "Erik was assigned to kill you. Instead of carrying out his orders, he botched the entire kill, for no apparent reason, by stopping Jacques and abducting you. That was the first time I've seen him do something like that. He grew a mite soft, I suppose."

Christine almost thought she had misheard him. She was not aware that Erik was the one who was to kill her...but she knew that he had tried to save Raoul. He had not hurt her, either, while she had been held captive by him. In fact, now that her memory was returning more clearly, she could not recall a cruel thing that he had done to her. He had even said that all he wanted to do was protect her.

...and if this was the first time Erik had ever stopped a killing, what was his motivation?

"Ah well," said Hughes, turning to look at Erik, who was still slumped on the sofa with a dull expression in his eyes. "This is not the first time I have had to do this. Shame, though, he had all the makings of a fine killer."

"Wait," Christine blurted as Hughes started to cock the gun. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"I want to do it," she said quietly. _It's a mad idea, but if I can get them out of the room..._

At first, Hughes seemed genuinely surprised, but then he started to smile. "You want to kill your tormentor? Understandable, my dear. Of course you may. Let her loose, Damian."

A man came up behind Christine and untied her bonds. Hughes came to her and took her small hand, helping her to her feet; her knees shook. The assassin gave her his gun. "Have you ever used this weapon before, my dear?"

Christine shook her head, remembering when she had feebly held Erik at gunpoint. She hadn't the faintest idea how to actually fire the thing. Hughes guided her to stand in front of Erik and stood behind her. The musty smell of his clothes was much too strong.

"Now, hold it straight before you. Point it at his head. It doesn't matter where you hit his head, he'll die either way. This is called the hammer—pull it back—and now you are ready to shoot. Pull the trigger here."

Fighting to steady her hands, Christine unwillingly aimed the weapon at Erik's head, locking gazes with him. He was sitting there hopelessly, looking close to death from tiredness, but his eyes seemed to hold fear. She had never seen him look so afraid before. He truly believed she was going to kill him.

"What if he doesn't die the first time?" Christine asked, desperately trying to buy time and feeling the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes on her.

"Shoot him again. Shoot until you have no more bullets," Hughes said in a rush. Christine felt ill.

She took a breath, as if readying herself, but then she gasped and staggered. Hughes steadied her immediately. "Forgive me," she said weakly, holding her palm to her head, "but I feel faint and I am nervous. Please, let me alone for a time so I can think. We women are not as violent as you men, we must think before we make a decision like this. Please, only a minute."

Hughes gave her an odd look, but he seemed to believe her. He cast Erik a dark glare and then motioned for his men to leave the room with him. Christine could not have been happier when that door closed.

She approached Erik, who followed her every move with his eyes. He looked pitiful, crumpled there on the sofa with blood on his temple.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked her. His voice was soft.

"Unless you tell me why you didn't assassinate Raoul and I, I may," she replied flatly, hoping that this would force a response out of him, at last.

Erik didn't blink. He looked at the floor and sighed, looking as if he needed to make a very difficult decision. "You may hate me for what I am about to say."

"Go on and we shall see," Christine said.

Looking back up at her, Erik gave her a limp smile. "I love you."

* * *

A/N: Thank you for still reading this story, despite my flakiness. Please forgive the short chapter! ^_^


	16. Chapter 16

Erik immediately regretted speaking the words the moment they passed his lips. He almost cringed at Christine's facial expression; her incredulous eyes and her slightly slack jaw said what she couldn't voice. He lowered his gaze again to his feet, face burning with embarrassment behind his smothering mask. Any sort of tie he had formed with her was severed now. She would leave in a few moments, or, more likely, raise the gun she had in her hand and end his unfortunate existence.

...But instead, there was only silence. Erik didn't dare raise his head, even when he heard Christine speak in a flat, barely audible tone.

"Sir, surely you cannot expect me to accept your...confession..."

"I do not expect anything of you," he mumbled, "but your hatred of me does not distress me. I only wish to keep you safe and admire from a distance...to kill me or free me is your choice to make."

She made a small noise, like a cough or a choke. Erik looked up at her just enough to see that she had set the gun down on the floor. "I can't kill you," she replied, her tone suddenly extremely weary. "My heart is not as frozen as yours." She sighed. "I will let you go."

Erik held strong eye contact with her for a moment before he instructed her to slip her fingers into his boot and remove a small knife. She did so and began to cut his bonds awkwardly, struggling to slice through the coarse rope. Her small hands wavered as she sawed away and Erik wondered if the blade might slip and cut him. After she had removed the rope tying his ankles together she turned him about and started on the bonds around his arms. As Erik had expected, the knife slipped halfway through and nicked his lower forearm quite painfully.

"Oh, forgive me," Christine blurted, nervously touching the small wound. She quickly finished her work and tossed away the ropes, grabbing his arm with trembling hands.

"It's nothing," Erik told her. The longer they remained here, the higher the chance was of someone coming downstairs and stopping them. He seized the abandoned gun lying on the floor. "We must leave now."

With Christine trailing closely behind him, Erik moved up the small staircase and slowly opened the door at the top. He heard soft male voices inside the room drop immediately in volume and knew he had been detected.

As soon as the first man threw open the door, Erik began firing. He knew he was hitting his attackers from the cries and groans that assaulted his ears. Flurries of hands were yanking on his hair, striking him in the face, trying to pull him down to the floor, but still he continued to fire the gun as he barreled his way through the room. Christine was screaming behind him, latched tightly onto his arm.

He ran into the wall and groped for anything that would mean exit from this place; a doorknob, a window. When at last he found a latch he shoved the door open and fled, his vision red and hazy and his breath coming in short, hard bursts. He could hear the shouts and gunfire behind him.

In the madness, Erik spotted a passing carriage, with the bewildered driver staring at him. He leapt onto the vehicle, shoving the stunned man into the street and grabbing the reins. Christine was still crying as she lay sprawled in the carriage, clambering up into the seat. Erik snapped the reins hard and the horse spooked amidst the wild commotion, jumping into a gallop.

The yelling started to fade as the carriage barreled through the street. Erik struggled to control the vehicle, trampling dozens of passerby in the process. He heard Christine screaming in horror as one man disappeared under the wheels with an unpleasant crunch, then again as another person was crushed. "Stop, stop, oh God!" Christine was crying.

At last, they dashed out of Paris, headed God knew where, on an incredibly dark road. The horse was still going mad, and refused to slow no matter how hard Erik pulled on the reins.

Around a bend, Erik could feel that the carriage was going to tip. He released the reins, grabbed Christine and, with a deep breath that he realized could be his last, he leapt off the vehicle and struck the ground hard, rolling and sliding down a gentle hill. As he skidded to a halt he looked up in time to see the carriage tumbling down the hill, pulling the screaming horse with it. The contraption landed in the ditch nearby, the wheels still spinning madly at a crooked angle.

Finally, there was silence.

Erik immediately pulled Christine away from his body to see if she was hurt. She was conscious, with her eyes wide open, but clearly shaken and shocked. Her body was trembling so violently that she appeared to be having a fit, and her face was smeared with dirt and blood from small cuts on her cheeks. She stared up at him with a look so terrified he thought she might be looking at Death himself.

"Christine, can you walk? Are you in great pain?" he asked her, trying to examine her limbs as she pulled them away from his hands.

She struggled to speak, choking on her words. "I...no...Erik, your face...something's wrong..."

His blood chilled, and before he even lifted his hand to touch his cheek he knew his mask was gone. It was probably on the floor of the house, torn off by the men he had been struggling against. There was a wetness on his cheek that came away as blood on his fingertips, and he felt three or four good lumps in his jaw, mouth and brow, but what Christine was seeing was not an injury.

Christine was laying eyes on the source of Erik's unhappy life, a birth defect that few had ever seen. A smashed, misshapen nose, wrinkled and carved valleys, scaly flesh and strange bulges that seemed to shift the position of the entire face was what Erik had been graced with as a fetus. The mask was only a piece of art that resembled a normal man's features.

He suddenly felt completely drained, empty, and cold. His facade was gone.

"Christine," he sighed, struggling to think about what words he could possibly say in this moment. "I'm sorry...I have not been completely honest with you."

"You've always looked like that?" she whispered, with a trace of horror in her voice that made Erik cringe.

Before he could respond, she began to back away from him, crawling awkwardly as she stared at him. She was still trembling, and to his rage, he could see her mouth forming familiar words... _"Raoul...I need Raoul..."_

"He's dead!" he said venomously, his emotions boiling over. "Don't you understand! He's DEAD!"

"Because of you, he's dead!" Christine cried. "I don't even know you, you are a stranger! You're a murderer, a liar, and a demon!"

"I am all of those things, but I am also all you have left," Erik snapped at her.

Christine glared at him with eyes full of tears. He breathed heavily through his teeth, trying to calm his raging anger. "If you choose to leave, I will remain here in this spot until I die. If you choose to stay, I will take you into my care. I did not lie when I told you my feelings for you. I do love you."

"I love _Raoul," _she hissed.

"Raoul is dead. He is rotting in the ground as we speak. There is no more Raoul, but there is me. I may be a murderer, a liar and a demon, but I am the only person who knows you are innocent. I am willing to love you, even if you are not willing to love me."

He gave a heavy sigh and added, "I do not ever want to see you hanging from the gallows, Christine."

Christine blanched at Erik's words. It was clear to him what she was seeing in her mind, and it was terrifying her. She looked back up at him, still looking distraught as before, but there was a slight calmness in her face.

"Please help me," she whispered.

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A/N: Dear readers, please forgive me for my long absence of chapters!! Finals before winter break, running a Christmas show from November into late December and just everday life sucked up all of my time. I am now on Christmas break though, and will probably be able to write a little more often. Please enjoy this chapter, and I am sorry again! Thank you for your patience.


	17. Chapter 17

Once Erik had taken a few deep breaths, he stood up on unsteady legs. He knew exactly where his body would be sore the following day. His head and face was throbbing from the multiple lumps he'd received. Christine did not seem to be badly hurt, but still he assessed her injuries as he helped her to her feet. She was trembling violently in the cold air, her arms drawn up against her chest and her fists pressed against her mouth. Other than the few scrapes and cuts she had on her face and neck, she did not seem to have any bad wounds.

At the moment, their only shelter was the overturned carriage. It would at least hide them until daybreak, and then they could carry on to find more appropriate living spaces. The horse, upon a glance, was obviously dead. Erik guided Christine awkwardly to the carriage and motioned for her to duck into the partially crushed cab, where she curled up on the ground and continued to shake. Erik crawled in beside her, groaning as he struck his skull on the ceiling of their makeshift shelter.

"What's going to happen?" Christine whispered through her fists. "Will they find us?"

Erik leaned up against the wall of the carriage, touching the swellings on his face gingerly. "I don't know what will happen now. We're just going to have to hide for the time being. I don't think they will find us here."

He looked at her as she sat curled in the corner across from him. She was still shaking like a leaf. "You'll catch your death, Christine," Erik sighed. "Come, sit by me so you can stay warm."

She only stared at him as if he had suggested she do something completely ludicrous. When she didn't move for a few minutes, he wearily took off his dirty, rumpled coat and gave it to her. She slipped her small body inside it and shoved her arms inside the sleeves, which covered her hands.

For a while, there was complete silence. Erik had shut his eyes and leaned his sore head against the wall, his arms crossed tightly. He had assumed Christine was sleeping, but suddenly he heard her small voice.

"What happened?"

He opened one eye slowly and looked at her. She was still sitting in the same position, but her eyes had softened slightly. She was looking steadily at him.

"What do you mean?" he grumbled.

"Your face."

_Oh._ Erik's spirits sank even further. He was in no mood to talk about his appearance, but, since he had kept it secret from her this entire time, he thought maybe she deserved to hear at least a small part of the story.

"I was born with it," he said shortly. "It's a defect."

"What did your mother and father think of it?"

Obviously she was not aware of how painful her probing questions were. Erik's temper twitched and he said in a slight snap, "I don't know. I was a bastard child, and my mother left me soon after I was born."

He saw Christine flinch a little at his hot words, but her curiosity had not left her face. "Who cared for you?"

"A small Gypsy family took me and raised me for several years. Then I lived on my own."

Christine seemed to mull over this information for a few minutes in silence. Erik was growing visibly irritated from these questions, and he hoped that she would see this from his body language and by the fact he was not making eye contact with her.

"Why do you kill people?" she asked softly, at last.

Erik hesitated before he answered, his temper cooling slightly. She'd finally asked a question that did not probe into his past too deeply. He lifted his head a little so he was looking straight at her. She'd partially hidden her face behind the collar of his jacket, as if she were a child.

"It is to satisfy my own desire for revenge," he said simply.

To his surprise, he saw a tear drip down her cheek. "Would you ever kill me?" she whispered.

His heart stung with guilt. She looked so afraid. He shifted a little closer to her. "No, I would never kill you. I love you, Christine."

She said nothing for a few moments, and her eyes had hardened. She slowly closed them, and held out her hand in Erik's direction.

"Give me your hand."

Realizing what she was doing, he reluctantly gave her his hand. Her fingers were ice cold. She was seeking out that dead lover again, looking for anyone's touch besides Erik's. She couldn't stand to touch a man that she hated.

"Christine," Erik started.

"Don't speak," she hushed him quickly. Her voice had changed, it was more gentle, soothing. "You're tired, you must go to sleep. Let me help you." She began to caress his hand gently, raising it to her cheek and pressing it to her skin. "You're so cold."

Unexpectedly, Erik's anger surged. He'd had enough of playing a different man just to satisfy her. In a short moment of stupidity, he grabbed her head and kissed her hard on the mouth. Christine responded by shrieking against his lips and kicking him hard. Her foot managed to slam into the most sensitive area of his body with quite a bit of force, and he instantly released her, doubled over and groaning in pain.

"What are you doing?" she barked at him. "Never do that ever again, do you hear me?"

"Now you understand how I feel," he hissed at her. "I am not your toy, girl. Stop this ridiculous game and I will not touch you again."

She bristled. _"You _do not know how _I _feel, monsieur. Allow me to kill your lover and then we shall speak of this matter."

Still bent over on the ground, Erik flashed her a depressing smile. "Oh, my dear, but I have lost something, as well, just like you. The mind is quite a terrible thing to lose."

She stared at him, horror plain on her face, and turned away. She did not speak to him again for the rest of the night.

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A/N: Thanks for your patience and feedback! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :D


	18. Chapter 18

The days following the odd pair's escape from Paris proved to be difficult. Without a mask, Erik was unable to wander into any town or city, unless he wanted to draw unkind attention to himself. Christine was no help to him, either. She simply cowered in his presence now, meek and silent, and he was forced to pull her by the hand.

Erik had abandoned the smashed carriage that morning and headed out, away from the road to avoid detection. He tried to keep away from the brushier areas of land and remained on the flat, moist ground. The two travelers were both filthy and exhausted, not to mention incredibly hungry. The question of where to find food and water was shouting loudly in Erik's mind.

Perhaps it was due in part to his exhaustion, but Erik could also not shake the feeling that he was being followed or watched. Repeatedly, he would turn about to glance over his shoulder, but he could not see anyone. Even so, he knew that they were not alone. It was only a matter of time before someone revealed themselves, and so Erik's body was incredibly tense, prepared for attack. His head was pounding.

"Why are you trembling so?" Christine asked him, her voice itself carrying a tremor. Erik did not answer for a minute or two, pausing to pull out his wrinkled kerchief and his knife from his boot. The sensitive flesh on his face was being burned by the sun. He cut two small eye-holes in the kerchief, then tied it around his head to create a crude mask.

"I am trembling because I am tired," he answered, his voice dry and hoarse. "Come, let's go."

This time she did not take his hand even though he offered it to her, but he did not wait for her to change her mind. He continued on, and she followed.

Erik began to think about Christine's final destination. He hadn't any idea where that would be, or what sort of environment it would be. Perhaps even an orphanage, a hospital, or the house of a stranger who proved to be kind and trustworthy. Less importantly, what would _he_ do after he had left Christine? Both his phantom and assassination business were out of the question.

Perhaps if he just disappeared...no one would notice if he was dead, after all.

"Erik!"

Christine's sharp whisper snapped him from his daydreams. He turned around immediately and saw a lone man riding up on a horse. His eyes were drawn instantly to the long rifle pointed directly at his head.

With both hands, Erik seized the weapon and yanked just as the man on the horse pulled the trigger. A deafening explosion, a startled yell, and the rider tumbled heavily onto Erik, sending them both to the ground. It was immediately apparent that the rider had the advantage; he was nourished and full of energy, whilst Erik was quickly loosing strength. The two men tumbled and scuffled around in a circle in the dirt, attempting to pin the other down. Erik was trying to free his hands to reach for his lasso in his pocket, but his opponent held one arm behind his back, and the other he was forcing into the same position. A hard knee pinned both his wrists into his spine, and then an elbow wrapped around his throat and closed off his air supply.

There was nothing Erik could do. He was the injured gazelle in the jaws of the lion. He fought for a minute, writhing as furiously as he could, trying to twist his head from the lethal grip, but the man's arm was like solid iron. His eyes rolled as black spots began to dance in his vision. The man planned to kill him. There was no doubt. Hughes was not playing any more games.

He only managed to catch a glimpse of Christine out of the corner of his eye, praying she would run.

* * *

From the moment the rifle had gone off, Christine was standing completely still, her hands slapped over her mouth, her eyes enormous as she observed what was happening. The man was killing Erik right before her. They had only fought for what seemed like a second before the horse rider had trapped Erik's throat against his arm. The scene was horrifying. Erik was trying to fight, but he started to twitch and convulse and his eyes swiveled up into his head. His forehead above his mask was beginning to turn an unpleasant shade of blue.

_Have you ever used this weapon before, my dear?_

The gun. It was still in her dress pocket. Her cold, trembling hand reached inside and closed around the wooden handle.

_Now, hold it straight before you. _

She raised the gun towards the two men, barely able to see properly from her violent shaking. She remembered Hughes' thin, tight smile, and his cold hands as he had shown her how to hold the weapon.

_Point it at his head. _

Would she hit him in the head? What would happen if she missed? What if she struck Erik?

_Pull the trigger._

"_But what if he doesn't die the first time?" _

She saw Erik's body begin to calm, and his head dropped to the ground. She fired.

The assailant jerked and cried out, but he did not release Erik. Christine fired again, her ears ringing painfully from the first bang. This time the man fell to the ground alongside Erik and did not move.

Christine did not run so much as trip and stumble over to Erik where he lay. She heaved him onto his back and stared at him through tearful, terrified eyes. His lips were darkened, his eyes shut. She was shaking so badly she could hardly control her hand as she laid her hand against his severely bruised and reddened neck.

There was a faint pulse.

"Thank God," Christine gasped, covering her face with both her hands. She breathed in deeply and began to sob.

She could not bring herself to look at the man she had shot, but she knew he was dead. Christine had just killed a man, for the first time in her life.

Slowly, Christine fainted as she sat there on her knees, leaning forward until her head was pressed against Erik's chest.

That was her last memory until she woke up again, many hours later. She found herself staring at a white wall that was painfully bright, and felt a warm, heavy weight covering her entire body. A strange voice rang out softly.

"Ah, you're awake, dear. You had quite a faint out there, but you're all right now. No need to fear."

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A/N: Once more, thank you for the reviews. I am very happy you are still interested in the story!


	19. Chapter 19

Christine turned her head in the direction of the strange voice. Sitting beside her on a chair was a red-haired young man in dark brown clothing, smiling at her. A pair of light blue eyes were gazing at her. Christine blinked, confused, and slowly examined her surroundings. She seemed to be lying in a bed in a small, plainly furnished room.

"You're quite a brave girl, mademoiselle," the man said in a lowered voice. "You took action before I could even reach you."

The memory of Erik's closed eyes and bruised neck flashed briefly in Christine's mind and she gasped. "Where is he?"

"Your attacker?" the young man replied, raising an eyebrow. "He is dead."

"No," Christine said, shutting her eyes as if to block out that horrible moment. "The man I was with. Erik."

The stranger's expression changed and he nodded his head. "I'm not certain of your friend's name, but the other man who was with you is in the other room. The one with the unfortunate face?"

"Yes, he. May I see him?"

"If you feel well enough to stand, you may." Christine told him she felt quite well, despite the fact she had a slight sensation of dizziness. Still, the man helped her to her feet, allowing her to hold onto his arm, and he guided her into another room. In a small, faded armchair sat Erik, wrapped in a blanket with his head tilted back, exposing a darkly bruised throat. The kerchief had been replaced around his face.

"He's still unconscious. Nearly half dead. Here, would you like to sit down?" The man released her arm, grabbed a nearby wooden chair and placed it beside the armchair. Christine sat down next to Erik, feeling cold and empty, her face pale and emotionless.

"If you please, I would like a moment alone with this man," she said softly to the stranger. He muttered something in acknowledgment and left the room, shutting a door.

For a few silent seconds, Christine listened to the sound of Erik's rough breathing from his partially open mouth. She had half a mind to touch his hand and speak his name, to see if he would wake, but she held back. Why was she feeling like this so suddenly, so forward? More importantly, what had been her motivation for shooting Erik's attacker? She was not a violent woman, she knew that she was meek and gentle.

Hesitantly, she placed her fingers on the back of his icy cold hand and pressed slightly. "Erik?" she said in a low tone, watching his face. His eyelids fluttered slightly; he appeared to be simply asleep now, rather than a comatose state.

"Erik, it's I, Christine. Can you hear me?"

Very slowly, as if he were coming back from the dead, Erik's eyes opened. The whites of them were spotted with what looked like blood. He steadily turned his gaze towards Christine's voice, moving his head very slightly.

"Chr..." he tried to say, but his voice was gone. The only sound he uttered was nothing more than a mere rattle. Christine instinctively touched his forehead.

"Hush. You're quite hurt, you shouldn't be speaking."

He glanced down at her hand upon his. She immediately removed it, her face turning warm.

"Why...did you kill...him?" he whispered, every word spoken with effort. His bloodshot eyes were focused on her now, with an intensity that made Christine uncomfortable when she looked at him.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully.

"You didn't run," he said, and the corner of his pale lips lifted up slightly in a smile. Christine fought back a sudden urge to move away from him. Perhaps he saw this as a window of opportunity to become close to her.

"I did what any reasonable person would do," she said firmly. "That's all."

Erik lifted his hand a little and touched her hand. She immediately pulled away, a little too quickly to be polite. He seemed startled by her gesture and his smile faltered. "I am not you, Erik." Christine stated firmly. "I am not a killer."

"I didn't...say you were," he rasped. "I am only grateful for your compassion."

The door behind them opened a ways, and the young man entered slowly, carrying a cup of steaming tea. Erik's body tensed. Obviously he was unaware of a stranger in the house. "Who is it?" he croaked, straining to see around the back of his chair.

"My name is Pierre, monsieur," the young man replied, coming around face Erik in his chair. He offered the injured man a polite smile. Christine watched Erik's reaction to the newcomer carefully. He was staring hard at the stranger in front of him, giving him a quick glance up and down. His lips were pressed tightly together.

"I've made you some tea to soothe your throat," the man said, and gave Erik the cup. He took it slowly, nodding his thanks, but he did not sip it immediately. Pierre did not seem bothered by his behavior, however, and turned his attention to Christine. "Are you feeling well, miss?" When Christine replied that she was indeed well, he gave her a pleased smile and offered her a chair. He was quite the charming one. He was not as slender as Raoul, a little stockier with a squarer jaw, but he was pleasant to look at.

"You two will be feeling well in no time, and you can be on your way," he told Christine, giving her an old quilt to warm herself.

"Actually, monsieur, we do not know where to go. We were being pursued by men who intended to kill us, and we were only trying to escape." She glanced at Erik, wondering if she had revealed too much, but she could not see his expression, his head was turned away from her.

Pierre seemed quite surprised at this information. "You don't say? Whatever are you wanted for?"

"I don't know," she lied. "They killed my fiance, and this gentleman, Erik, was kind enough to take me into his care. We don't know where to go."

"My God, how horrific," the young man whispered, his eyes wide. He grasped Christine's cold hand in sympathy. "You may stay with me as long as you see necessary."

She looked him in the eyes. "You do know your life is in danger the longer we remain here?"

Pierre squeezed her hand and smiled. "I don't mind. I will protect you."

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw Erik's seething gaze burning into the young man's head.

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A/N: Thank you once more for your continued interest and reviews! :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Dear readers,**

**first and foremost, I apologize for this SEVERELY overdue chapter. School has become incredibly intense this semester, and nearing the end of the year makes things even more difficult. I am so sorry for making you wait so long, and I have been trying to work on this chapter in short bits when I could. I hope you haven't all disappeared, but if you have stopped reading I wouldn't blame you. :)  
**

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Against Erik's wishes, Christine insisted that the two of them remain at Pierre's little house for the next two days. They had received no threats or signs of danger thus far, Christine insisted, and besides, as she had said, "I would like to rest."

Erik had quickly begun to recover from his injuries and was eager to move on, away from this area. The dead assassin was bound to be discovered sooner or later. However, his greatest weakness was exploited as he was reluctant to disappoint Christine and force her to leave the house. She was quite contented at this stranger's home, and, to his dismay, she was equally contented with the company of Pierre.

Pierre was a polite, soft spoken young man who was very attentive to their needs, especially Christine's. Erik was not entirely certain if the man had any family or friends in this remote area. He appeared to be a complete loner. While he was obviously not a danger to them, he served to be an annoyance to Erik. He wasn't exactly a threat to any sort of relationship between Christine and Erik, but he was only one more obstacle that might have to be pushed aside.

Christine, in the meantime, was quite comfortable with their new companion. Pierre, she discovered, was a merchant at a tiny trade supplier down the road, and he lived alone in this small house. On the morning of their second day in the house, he graciously invited Christine to accompany him to the store.

The place, located down the lumpy dirt road about half a mile, was indeed small; Pierre's own home was almost larger. Christine simply sat on a small stool near Pierre's working space and watched him as he began to stock the small shelves with dry goods.

"Do you get much business in this little town?" Christine asked him, unable to hide a smile as she watched him lift a weighty sack of wheat flour with little effort. Her eyes lingered on his stocky forearms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves.

"Enough to remain open," he chortled, glancing over his shoulder at her and returning her grin. He paused in a moment of slight awkwardness. "Have you spoken to your friend this morning?"

Christine remembered seeing Erik sprawled on the sofa in the living room that morning. "No. He was fast asleep as we left."

The young man nodded. "He needs the rest. You both have suffered a terrible ordeal."

He turned back to his work. Christine bit her lip and looked down at her folded hands in her lap. Her urge to reveal more information about Erik to Pierre was incredibly strong. He was such a kind and gentle man, he would certainly be understanding.

"He is an assassin," she nearly whispered.

"Eh?" Pierre said, his back still turned to her.

"Erik is an assassin," she said, slightly louder. Pierre paused and turned towards her, his brows knit in confusion. He set his hands on his waist, staring hard at her.

"Assassin?"

The words began to spill out of Christine's lips as if she were dribbling. "Yes. He and another killer was assigned to murder my fiance. Erik tried to prevent his death, but Raoul was killed despite his efforts."

The young man stared at her intently for a painfully long minute. He set down the small box of goods he was holding on the counter. "Why do you wish to tell me this? Has he threatened to kill you?"

"Oh no," Christine said quickly. "He has been exceedingly gentle with me, he has even confessed that he has feelings of affection for me. I...I felt that I must tell someone about who he is. I don't believe anyone knows except I."

Pierre's eyebrows raised very slowly.

"I wanted to warn you that your life may be in danger," Christine added very seriously. "I don't think he has quite taken to you as a friend."

The man's mouth twitched in a stiff smirk. "I suspected as much. He probably sees me as a threat. I shall remember to be careful, Christine. You needn't fear."

-----------

A small click of a door lock was all that was needed to rouse Erik from his sleep.

His eyes slowly opened to stare at the ceiling. The silence in the house was deafening, but that singular noise was enough for him to know that he was no longer alone. Slowly and soundlessly, he rose from the sofa and deftly pressed himself against the wall beside the door hinge. His heartbeat began to accelerate at a rapid pace.

There were footsteps on the floor; extremely slight and quiet, but Erik was able to hear them. From the sound of it, they were approaching the door at a very slow pace.

His eyes swiveled to the turning doorknob. The door was pushed open just slightly, and the smooth barrel of a pistol protruded into the room.

Suddenly, the front door to the house was loudly opened. Erik immediately recognized the sound of Pierre's voice.

The pistol instantly disappeared from view and an ear-splitting shot was fired. A woman's scream, Christine's scream, filled the house, and Erik's heart was clutched by a cold iron hand. Abandoning all care and stealth, he wrenched open the door to his room and barreled into the living room, his fingers reflexively ripping the lasso from his vest pocket. He didn't even stop to look at the identity of the man who had fired the gun before he had looped and tightened the rope around the attacker's throat, as fast and as lethal as a python.

As the man began to struggle, Erik tore the pistol from his flailing hand and tossed it away. His prey dropped to his knees, twisting and gagging in the noose. Erik pulled his head up by the man's hair to look at his face. It was Hughes. His huge eyes rolled up to look at him, and, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, he managed to form a silent word with his lips.

"Erik!..."

Erik said nothing.

The man began to weaken and his body started to grow slack. Only when his face hit the floor and he made no more movements did Erik remove the rope from his neck. Now he could turn his attention to what had just taken place.

He grabbed a petrified, sobbing Christine by the arm, his hard eyes tracing her body for visible injuries. There was no blood on her blue dress, only tears staining her bodice.

"Erik, Pierre!" she choked at him, pointing to the floor.

Erik turned and squatted down besides the unmoving man. It was already obvious, even though he had not yet touched him, that Pierre was dead. A small pool of dark blood was forming underneath his head, and his eyes were glassy and open.

He glanced back up at Christine. "There is nothing I can do. I'm sorry."

Christine held both her fists up to her mouth, her red eyes staring at him. "He's dead...?"

"Yes."

Erik stood slowly, taking her arm gently. "Come. We must leave now, it is too dangerous to stay here."

Christine clutched his arm. "But we must bury him, at the very least! He deserves a proper burial!"

"We haven't the time. The townsfolk will find him."

She seemed to slip into another numb state at that time, and allowed Erik to lead her from the house. He turned away from the town, taking a road that he knew would get them further away from Paris. As they began to walk, he kept his arm on hers, feeling her fingers dig into his sleeve. The poor girl's mind was traumatized.

"You killed that man," she said slowly.

Erik remained silent.

"Did you see his eyes...when you were killing him..."

He felt her shudder violently. "Shhhh," he said, allowing his hand to rest on her waist. This gesture seemed to break her out of her horrified stupor. She turned into him, wrapping both of her thin arms tightly around his body, her hands gripping the back of his cloak. She buried her face against his chest and sobbed deeply into his shirt.

Erik was only stunned for a moment as he stood there. Keeping one hand on her waist, he gently touched the top of her head with the other, noting quietly in the back of his mind that this was the first time he had actually touched her with this tenderness.

"I will take care of you."


	21. Chapter 21

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

Christine really could not comprehend how Erik could stand it.

She watched him, silently disturbed, her masked companion held a would-be thief against the wall of a building, his noose pulled taut around the stranger's throat. When Erik let him drop to the ground, dead, he sighed through his nose and flexed his obviously sore hand.

"He won't do that again."

He sounded so tired.

"Erik..."

Stepping up in front of her, he looked down at her with those horribly loyal eyes. "What is it?"

Christine looked away from him, at the ground. "How much money do you have left?"

"Enough," he replied, without even checking his pockets. "What is it you want?"

She touched that fabric of her dirty, worn dress, and thought about all of the dust and soil that must be in her hair. They had been traveling for ages and neither of them had had a chance to wash properly.

"I would like to find a place to stay so we can wash. We're both filthy. I feel like a beggar. Please...I'm very tired."

He stared at her, then slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a small satchel, dipping his fingers into it and silently counting money. He emitted a barely audible sigh, then nodded to Christine and motioned for her to follow him. She could barely contain a relieved smile as she walked closely behind him in the darkened alley.

Somehow, Erik managed to navigate his way through the blackness and find a man who had rooms available. The way the man at the desk looked at Christine made her shudder, but she knew that as long she was near Erik no one could hurt her. Erik could kill faster than she could think.

After listening to him speak a few words and exchange money with the man at the desk, she followed him closely up a rickety flight of wooden stairs and into a completely black room. Christine stood motionless for a moment while Erik found the lamp and lit it. The dim light cast his gigantic shadow onto the other wall, creating the illusion of a monster, something out of a storybook.

Erik had shed his cloak on the bed, and dragged a old, worn washtub out from beside the bed. He pulled it near the closet, then removed the sheet from the bed and began to tie it from a lamp on the wall to the coat-rack.

"I am afraid there is no hot water for you," he said, but Christine didn't mind; any bath at all, hot or cold, was a relief to her.

"Thank you for doing this," she told him as he stepped back.

As Christine disrobed awkwardly behind the sheet, Erik went to fetch water. He returned with a pitcher, which he carefully handed to her through a gap between the sheet and the wall. The water was ice cold, and Christine had to keep from shrieking as she poured the water over her head and body.

When she finally emerged, dressed in her chemise and her hair wet, she slipped on her little shoes and went to seat herself in a nearby chair. Erik was sitting on the bed, facing away from her, but she no longer minded if he saw her in this immodest state of dress. She was too exhausted to mind.

Her eyes rose to stop on Erik's back. He was breathing softly. He had done so much for her during these past days. Far too much, in fact. He was like machine vacant of human emotion, only existing to serve her and kill those who came too close. She also realized at this moment that she had never really spoken to him that often, nor asked him serious questions about himself.

"Erik," she said.

"Yes?" he replied without moving.

Christine slowly stood and sat next to him on the bed. He wouldn't look at her. She touched his shoulder, and felt his muscles, hard as stone. Was he even human anymore? Was he ever?

"Lay down, please," she said. Finally, he raised his eyes to her face. They frightened her. He looked like he had just crawled from the grave. Surprisingly, however, he obeyed her wish, and laid back on the bed, watching her.

She tentatively touched his forehead. He was ice cold. "Are you ill?" she said sharply.

"No. I am very tired," he answered in a deep sigh.

"Well, I'm not surprised. You've killed so many men, I would be worried if you were not tired." Her voice was a little more accusing than she had intended it to be.

"Killing does not tire me," he said, still looking at her eyes. "It is the worrying for your safety that exhausts me."

A frown wrinkled Christine's brow. "Do you really love me that much, Erik? Where is your emotion? Most of the time I feel as if a dead man is accompanying me. I am tired of dead men, Erik. Much too tired." She looked strongly at him.

"I don't know how to answer that," was all he said, and he sounded quite honest. "But you have changed, too."

She glanced down at her hand. Her nails were chipped. "How so?"

"You have grown cold. Like myself. When I saw you for the first time, you were warm and content."

"That is because I was happy then," she retorted quietly.

Erik actually smiled at this, but it was not a pleased smile. "Seeing death has hardened your heart. That is what it has done to mine."

Christine grumbled. "I am not like you, Erik, I've said it before. I'm not a killer, and I do show emotion. Now, sit up." He did so, and Christine shifted behind him. She firmly pressed her hands into his shoulders, rubbing the extremely tense and stony muscles. A few more squeezes, and she even got a relaxed groan from him.

"I am tired of being catered to by you. Now it's time for me to do something for you. A gift for you, I suppose."

"I don't need—" Erik started, but Christine's hand reached around to cover his mouth. Her other hand reached down and took his hand, feeling the rough calluses that were most likely a result from pulling a rope around many men's throats. She squeezed his hand hard, over and over until it felt warm, like a human hand instead the cold fingers of a corpse. She was a little taken aback when his fingers curled around her hand.

"I suppose you are alive, after all," she remarked, and Erik even laughed a little.

Erik eventually left the bed to go wash up himself, and Christine slumped onto the bed, tucking her legs up. She didn't understand why she had just touched Erik like that.

She'd actually enjoyed it a little.


	22. Chapter 22

**Dear readers,**

**I have been absent for quite some time! I'm not happy about not giving you new chapters sooner, but I simply had to take a break from writing for a bit. I was lacking in inspiration and time to just sit down and write and write like I have usually done. For that I'm extremely sorry, I hope you are not planning to come after me with pitchforks and torches! I offer you a longer chapter here to get us back on track. Thank you so much! **

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"Erik..."

Her voice came to him in slowly increasing levels of volume, as if it were very far away and steadily coming closer.

"Erik...there are men..."

His heavy eyes opened fully. Reaching an arm out blindly for Christine, his hand closed around her soft wrist. Erik sat up straight in bed, staring in the very dim light at the space where her face would be. In the early morning darkness, he could see her wide eyes shining at him.

"Do you hear them?"

He did. Muffled male voices from outside the window.

He stood abruptly but silently, motioning to Christine with his hand to stay where she was. He parted one of the dusty curtains at the window with a finger, very slightly. There they were; a small group of dark hatted men standing in the street outside of the inn, smoking and muttering. They seemed to be average in height and build. There was no one that Erik could immediately recognize, but he noticed that one of them was shorter than the rest. They were all a threat.

Erik watched them in complete silence and stillness for about fifteen minutes. He could not decipher what they were saying through the glass, and dared not open the window for fear of attracting attention. He watched as their pipes were extinguished and they appeared to exchange parting words before walking off to the left. However, the shorter man went inside the inn.

Turning to Christine, he ran one hand through his wild hair, heart pumping hard. They needed to leave immediately. One of those strangers was inside the building, effectively trapping them in the room if they did not leave now.

"Dress quickly and quietly, Christine. We must depart as soon as possible."

Pale and looking panicked, Christine did as she was told. Erik threw on his cloak and coiled his lasso loosely around his wrist. He was grateful that they did not have any luggage to drag along with them.

Her hand touched his shoulder. "I'm ready."

With half his cloak draped around Christine, Erik passed by the front desk, currently manned by a snoring receptionist, and tossed his key onto the desktop. Upon leaving through the front door, Erik surveyed the darkened street but could see no one. A dog was barking several blocks away.

It would be best to go to the right, as far away from the men as possible. He wasn't entirely sure where in the town he was, or even what town he was in, but it was no matter. He knew the North, the South, the East, and the West.

Christine's hand was trembling a little in his grasp.

"Erik, I'm so frightened. What if they find us? They'll murder us both!" she whispered in a broken voice.

"Don't speak of such things, Christine," he hissed back. "I will keep you safe. Do you trust me?"

She sighed. "Well, I suppose somewhat...but what am I to do if you're captured again? Or killed?"

"They won't kill me."

The words had barely left his mouth when a stunning blow came out of the darkness and struck him across the top of his skull. A thousand church bells roared in his ears and he could see nothing but brilliant white stars. It registered in his numbed brain that Christine's hand was no longer in his.

"Erik!" he heard her cry. She was distressed.

When his vision finally cleared, he discovered that he was partially lying in the street, with his legs crumpled in the gutter. He struggled to his feet, the newly formed lump on his head throbbing, and moved towards the sound of Christine's voice. It was fading down the street.

_Run, you bastard, they've taken her!_

Erik ran. He could see someone ahead. It was either two people or one oddly shaped person. They were struggling. He came closer, and he saw that it was one person fighting to get away from the other. At that moment, his pain temporarily disappeared and his blood rushed with adrenaline. His legs carried him at a dizzying speed, cloak flying out madly behind him, and at last he collided with the stranger.

His hand instinctively wrapped the lasso around the man's neck and pulled. The man was a fighter, writhing violently like a dying fish, and it was proving difficult to keep him down. Erik was gasping for breath himself, blinking blood and sweat from his eyes.

Suddenly, his victim choked out a word. "Pl....please!"

The man was only a boy.

"Erik, stop for a moment! Wait!" Christine whispered loudly near his ear.

He loosened the lasso, just enough so the stranger could get some air. He shoved off the victim's cowl and cap, revealing a shock of dirty red hair, and a sickly blue but youthful face. He could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years of age.

"You've got a God damned nerve," Erik snapped. "I am twice your age. Tell me what the hell you were thinking, and what your business is. Now." Erik could feel the boy shaking as he loosened the lasso a little more. He'd squeezed all the strength out of him.

"Sir..." the boy rasped. "I'm sorry...my orders..."

"Give me your name," Erik hissed, tugging the rope.

"Brujon," he said hastily, licking his whitened lips. "I was told to take the girl named Daae."

"Who told you?"

"Jacques, sir."

Erik's heart skipped. Jacques had to be in the area. He could have been in the group of men outside the inn. He was a deadly threat to Christine's safety. He glared at the boy. "Has Jacques discovered the death of Hughes?"

Brujon nodded. "Yes. He has declared himself the ring leader of Hughes' organization. He has replaced him."

Erik's heart was clutched with cold dread. Hughes, while vile, had some semblance of sanity and reasoning. Jacques possessed neither of these traits. He would destroy anyone who displeased him.

"That is unfortunate," Erik said flatly.

A moment of silence passed on the street, with the three of them still in an awkward position. Erik, realizing that the Brujon posed as much of a threat as a lame dog did, slowly released him and tucked the lasso away. Christine knelt down and helped the boy to sit up. Then she turned her attention to Erik. "Oh God, you're bleeding," she whispered, pressing her sleeve to his head. She stared Brujon accusingly. "What on earth did you hit him with?"

"Dn'o," he muttered, shrugging and rubbing his throat. "Just a piece of wood..."

"You could have killed him."

The boy said nothing.

Christine helped Erik rise to his feet, dusting off his rumpled clothes and fussing over his hair that had matted with blood and dirt.

"We must leave, Christine," Erik said sternly, grasping her wrist and gently directing her hand away from his head. We're both in danger."

Brujon's head snapped up. "Oh, sir, please, don't leave me here. Jacques will kill me when he finds me without the Daae girl. Please, sir, please...he told me he'd bash my head in..."

"That is understandable," Erik muttered at him, earning him a hard look from Christine.

"For the love of God, Erik. He's only a boy. He's frightened, and he was only doing was he was forced to do. Please, let's at least take him to a safer place."

Everything in Erik's mind was screaming to just leave the scrawny thing in the street and leave with Christine. After all, he wasn't his responsibility. He was well old enough to know better than to try and carry out a kidnapping. But something stirred in his memory...a brief image of himself, as young as Brujon, sitting on the street, with his hand outstretched begging for food. No one had offered help then.

"Very well. Follow."

He took Christine's hand and immediately walked away. He could hear the boy struggling to his feet and stumbling to catch up with them.

"Thank you, sir," he blurted from behind. please forgive me for giving you that lump...I'm bloody grateful for your kindness--"

"Shut up," Erik said sharply.

Brujon was silent for the rest of the walk.

* * *

Jacques took a deep draw on his cigarette and blew smoke in the man's face before him.

"He's gone?"

"Yes. No sign of him for two hours now."

A deep growl sounded in Jacques throat as one hand rose to push his thick hair back and drag over his unshaven face. "I knew that little shit was good for nothing. Well, if you see him again, kill him. We can find the other two without his so-called help."

He stood from his chair in the darkened saloon and gestured for one of his men to approach him. The creature was wiry, but strong and quick. His long, blond hair hung over his face and barely hid his black snake's eyes from view.

"Rathbone. I'm giving you this, and I expect and trust you to carry out the deed for me." With these words, Jacques handed the man the hilt of his dagger, pressing it into his dirty palm. Rathbone's mouth rose in a smirk full of gray teeth.

"Course of action to take upon sight, sir?" he drawled.

"Kill the man without hesitation. Kill him quickly, because he's a powerful one. He uses a lasso. Bring the young lady back to me unhurt. I've already claimed her for myself."

"Taken a bit of a liking to her, have you, Jacques?" Rathbone said, raising one eyebrow.

Jacques smirked and drew on his cigarette, shutting his eyes for a moment as he imagined the moment he could finally grab Daae's soft golden hair and twist her head to bite and suckle on her neck.

"You might say that."


End file.
